


The Histories Shall Say

by Mira_Jade



Series: A Cast of Silver [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: . . . both the good the bad and the ugly, . . . but it isn't always the worst, . . . eventually, . . . just a few, Backstories for everyone, Canon Expansion, Character Study, Culture Clashes, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), Elf Culture & Customs, Exploring Middle-earth one forest at a time, F/M, Forging the Rings of Power, Friendship, Gen, Growing Up, It's not always easy being Galadriel's daughter, Moria in its heyday, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Romance, Second Age, Settle in for the ride folks because this fic covers centuries, The War of the Elves and Sauron, and I do mean 'eventually', and filling in canon-gaps along the way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 74,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2662208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the long journey to Valinor, Celebrían takes the time to record her story for those waiting to hear it on the Western shore. </p><p>From the troubled genius of Celebrimbor, and the vile machinations of Sauron; to the glory of Moria, the timeless wonder of Lórinand, and the birth of Imladris; Celebrían recalls the joys and tribulations of coming of age during the war-torn days of the Second Age. In the end, she finds that, perhaps, the courage to face the future lies firmly entrenched in the strength gained from the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Entry I

**Author's Note:**

> Back in January, on another site, I took up the challenge to keep the 'diary' of a character for an entire year, and this was my somewhat unorthodox reply to that challenge. Initially, I did not post this story here for fear of starting yet another unfinished project, but the year is now nearing its end and I have kept to writing this account rather faithfully. Not only that, but I have come to love the journey through the rather sparse information we have as to the events of the Second Age that this story has been. So, I figured that it was now time to share Celebrían's tale here. This story is already over 150,000+ words, so I shall update rather quickly for your reading enjoyment. You will not have to fear for an unfinished tale; this one most definitely will be finished. ;)
> 
> For the most part, I took my source material from the _History of Galadriel and Celeborn_ in the Unfinished Tales, and I built my story based on further bits and pieces gleaned from here and there. I will add notes along the way, but if anyone has questions or comments over anything specific, please do not be shy! I always enjoy a good chat. 
> 
> That said, I thank you all for reading, and I hope that you enjoy my small contribution to the Professor's truly wondrous world. :)

I can feel the waves as they lap against the hull of the ship.  
  
The sensation is soothing; a gentle up and down motion that lulls the body and fills the spirit with ease. For now, the starlit waters hold the ship as a cradle in the night, the ripple of the ocean as smooth as glass in a mirror. The waves heal, the current soothes; so much so that a part of me feels the urge to rise and seek the deck beyond. Long have I loved the spray of mist against my skin, and yet, only the briny kiss of saltwater awaits me beyond the comfort of my cabin. The ocean would not be the bright, fresh waters of the home I have now left far behind, and I . . . I do not yet think that I am ready to face the difference.  
  
A day ago, I would not have been able to walk a step unaided. Now I am contemplating walking to the door on my own power, and even beyond. It is a small step, but a momentous step, and I grieve that I am now alone to bask in the progress of my body. It is quiet around me; too quiet. My skin itches with the silence, and my hand on the quill is unsteady. For months I had known the steady hum of my family about me at all times – my children and parents sitting with me throughout the day, and my husband awake and holding me at night, protecting me from dreams . . . from memories. I miss Erestor and his prim flutterings about my rooms, diligent as he made sure that I had everything that could possibly give me comfort. I miss Lindir 'conveniently' practicing his newest compositions on the balcony beneath my own, ensuring that I always had music to hear, even when my mind was far from listening. I miss Glorfindel and his smiles; his easy humor and terrible jokes, each quip turning more and more ridiculous as he tried to snare my own joy in return. But, no matter how he tried to give me smiles, I could see his worry as it dimmed his Valinor-brightened eyes . . . eyes that I now so dearly miss.  
  
I have left those I love behind, and all I now hold of them are the reminders that decorate the small table before me. Closest to me, its pages waiting beneath the swaying lantern above, there is an empty journal of parchment. Erestor was kind enough to include it, anticipating the long sea-journey and my penchant for writing my every thought down when I had the time to do so. The journal waits between gifts from my children – a wooden horse that Elladan carved for me as a child, and a polished river stone Elrohir turned into a necklace near the same time. There was a leather roll, protecting paintings done by Arwen in her careful hand, each capturing the likeness of all in my household, thus ensuring that I would remember . . . that I would not forget.  
  
Already, I can feel my body strengthening the further and further West we sail. It had turned as a leaf towards the sun upon the quays of Mithlond, and now that we make our way towards the Straight Road, I can feel awareness once again return to my bones. A healing peace lulls my spirit, even though the brunt of that particular fight still lies before me. Irmo whispers to me in my dreams, promising peace and recovery in his Halls, at the gentle hands of Estë his wife, who even now gathers her Maiar to meet me.  
  
. . . is it terrible that my soul strengthens, even as I am taken far from all that I have ever loved and held dear? Already I can feel the bonds tied to my fëa flicker as the waves take me further and further from my home. Once I pass the veil of Aman, they shall break completely. The ever-warmth of my husband, the brightly colored strands of light that are my children, even the old and steady flames of my parents - the first sparks to birth my soul - those bonds will sever. They will be past my ability to reach, sleeping like the wood in winter until they too find the waterways West.  
  
I . . . I have never lived without these strands about my soul. It was a thought that terrified me, and every instinct within me tried to turn me away from my course, to protect the parts of me that I have so long held dear. At the flush of my fear, I could hear Irmo whisper . . . I could hear Estë sing. As if from far away, I could feel Elrond's spirit turn warm and comforting about mine. He had scarcely blinked since my ship left the harbor, and I know that he will not turn his thoughts away from me until he can feel me no more. We have existed as one for centuries, and to now be as two separate beings once more . . .  
  
This is not an ending, I have to repeat to myself. This is merely a parting, even though my soul aches for the separation to come. At the thought, I could again feel Elrond's spirit as it engulfed mine, holding on as if by doing so he could cling to me even past the veils of Valinor and beyond.  
  
Sometimes, in my weakest moments, I wish that death had come to me in the Orc-den. I wish that Elrond had not been able to heal my body so completely . . . I wish that Námo took my soul before my sons found me half-alive and too broken to fight. Then, when my family West would someday come, they could have met me whole and healthy again, newly arisen from the Halls to learn Aman by their sides. They never would have seen me fade until I was but a shadow of she whom I used to be, pale in the light and jumping at the sight of shadows.  
  
My thoughts are like those of a small child, irrationally afraid of the night. I again turned my mind to my husband, feeling for him across the distance. I . . . I am not strong enough to do this alone, I fear. And yet, neither was I strong enough to stay in Ennor. I would have fallen to Mandos in time, and we had all known the truth when Mithrandir whispered that West I must go. In Lórien, the Valar could fix what was broken, and yet . . .  
  
Shame still fills me when I think of how I left my family. I had been like a doll on strings in the days before I was taken to the Havens. My husband and mother took turns dressing me and brushing my hair, feeding me as if I were still a helpless infant. I could respond to neither word nor touch of soul . . . my poisoned mind could barely remember the names of my family as they moved about me. My fëa recognized _safety_ and _home_ and _warmth_ , and while I could take comfort from them in the basest of ways, I could offer none in return.  
  
To let me say my goodbyes, the Grey Maia had touched my brow and poured of his own fire into my spirit. For all of my days, I shall never have the words to phrase my gratitude for Mithrandir and his gift. For I was _Celebrían_ again when I said my farewells. I knew the names of my family and shared in their grief. I was strong enough to walk on my own power – to kiss my husband and hold my children tight. I was aware of my father's arms around me; I could feel my mother's gentle touch against my spirit. I can feel her even now, watching and clinging even as Elrond clung. They would not leave me until the West took me, and with the whisper of that thought I could feel my mother's spirit shine as a such a warmth in my mind, offering me both comfort and warmth. Even now I let her power fill me, she once again acting as a strength for me, as she has been for so very long.  
  
That first night at sea, I could see things on the horizon. I have but little of my mother's gift, being more akin to my father in temperament and talents, but Galadriel's Sight had been strong within me as I saw pictures on the waves . . . reflections of a time to come.  
  
Someday, I knew that I would be joined in the Uttermost West. Elrond will join me broken in spirit, torn apart by a war greater than any we have yet faced, and burdened by even more impossible choices after a long life of such choices . . . such losses. Already I can see fracture lines about his fëa from the weight of the Ring he wears, the same as my mother bears . . . For so long I have tried to fill in those weak lines with the strength of my own spirit, but now . . . now, I am leaving him, and what was fractured would have to someday heal, else it shatter completely. He will find me in the West, and I will then be something strong for him, a bulwark, as he so often was for me. A strength I will even be for Galadriel Finarfiniel, the greatest of our people to ever walk the ground of Arda marred. Already I knew of the sea-longing in my mother, the burdens on her soul and her yearning for home. For her too I will be a strength, for my father will not immediately seek the shores of hallowed Aman. Not when . . .  
  
There will be something holding them back, my father and my sons. A final farewell to two figures in shadow – a farewell I cannot see in its entirety. A part of me feels pain at the foresight - for already I knew of the turmoil in my sons souls; the violence in their hearts, the _anger_. Already they burn as the sons of Men burn, and I fear . . . As a mother, I already know the choice of the Firstborn to be made in Elrohir's heart. But Elladan . . . Elladan is more like Elros and Eärendil before him. His soul was hot and dry, just as those with too few of years, and already his thoughts have turned past the circles of the world. As one son chooses, my other son will not be far behind – down one path or the other, and I know an ache in my heart for the choice they could make.  
  
For all of the knowing what my children could possibly choose as the last of the Peredhil, the thought of never seeing them again hurts more than any torment I ever suffered of body. It is a hurt that settles spirit-deep, for my kind are not made to know permanent sundering. We are not made to bear such a grief, to understand such an agony. For oh, but it _is_ agony that I feel.  
  
I hugged my daughter goodbye on the quay, and I something whispered that it would be for the last time, as strange as that foresight was. _Last . . ._ such a curious concept, it was. _Last_ . . . an impossible idea to my mind, for not even death could sunder the spirits of the Edhil permanently. It could delay their reunion, but never could it permanently part those who loved and waited. My daughter . . . the blood of the Firstborn runs strong in her. She has the magic of the Song that bore this world in her heart, in her very soul, and where the world whispers _Lúthien_  for Arwen's fair likeness, my mother has often shaken her head and whispered _Melian_ in a voice that remembered. Great would be the power given to Arwen should she choose what her heart already knew, and yet . . .  
  
I held her, and wondered if I would do so again. I had pressed the Elessar into her hand, whispering about sunlight never fading if it was but remembered, all the while feeling as if I spoke about something beyond my ability to then comprehend. The stone had been Arwen's great delight as a child. Even as a babe she would forsake any other ornament I wore in order to touch the green gem with a solemnity that did not match a child's face. Now she was a woman in her own right, and the Elessar belonged in Middle-earth where such reminders were needed. It would be swallowed in the light of Aman, it's value and great symbolism lost.  
  
And I . . . I wished for something tangible for Arwen to remember me by. Perhaps what strength I have left to give will lend her courage enough to face the time to come, to be with her as the captured sunlight within.  
  
My hand shakes upon the quill now. My letters are quite unreadable, and yet . . .  
  
Sleep beckons to me. My thoughts leave me weary, but I force my eyes to remain open. Gandalf's parting gift still runs strong inside of me, and I have no intention of wasting my awareness. I have no desire to ever return to my world of waking-nightmares. Instead I will remember, and prepare to share my story with those who await its telling in far off Aman. I have many blank pages before me, and I intend to fill them before my journey's end. It is a story that deserves telling, and now, I have the time alone in which to do so . . . I will not let my mind return to that black and awful place that it has swam through for so long. I will no longer let the shadow have me. I will hold on to _me_ , I will be _myself_ , even before the shores of Valinor greet me.  
  
And so . . . I begin.  
  
This story starts, as most stories do, with a young woman, nearly grown. A child who thought herself to be quite more than that. An Age of the world ago, in a land that has long since been ruin and wild things. A land called Hollin, where I was born . . .


	2. Entry II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided that instead of the smaller installments this story was first written in, to just update larger sections of the story at a time. I am sure that you do not mind. ;)
> 
> For this first part, the OCs and the earlier events in Celebrían's childhood that Sauron refers to are from my oneshot _'Breath Held, Eyes Closed'_ , which I put as the first part in this series. If you are curious, there it waits you! That said, I thank you all for reading, and hope you enjoy. :)

The sounds from the feast echoed through the ways of Ost-in-edhil.  
  
The day had been warm; the sweet wind seemingly dancing in time with the harps and flutes as it breezed through the holly trees. Their song seemed to play in time with the tinkling of the fountains, fed from the great Sirannon river, rushing down from the Misty Mountains just beyond. Voices sang along with the music, rising and falling throughout the day as they called to Aulë, both thanking him for our last season of craft and praying for his blessing on the season to come.  
  
The summer festivals had long been one of my favorite times of the year. There was such a sorrow that clung to the autumn revelries, when we would sing the land to sleep for another year; and though the spring songs to Yavanna welcomed the earth anew, there was something about the summer that captivated me. During this time of year the land was at the zenith of its bounty, and the sky was blue and clear above us, full with the warmth of the season. I knew no happier time than when the earth was filled to the bursting with its bounty and might - indeed, sometimes it seemed as if my heart was full enough to match the land around me. For joy had been simpler in that time, much simpler indeed.  
  
In the springtide of the Second Age, there was a land called Eregion just to the west of the Misty Mountains. At the penning of this journal, that land is now wild country, the forests having long since grown to reclaim the ruins of those who once lived there. The natural world erased the pains of an old evil, but the scars still remained in the form of broken pillars and crumbling mortar. Stones sang to travelers who passed through the lonely land, calling out in both sorrow and warning for the woes of the Elves of Eregion. Yet, once . . . once Eregion had been home to the city of Ost-in-edhil, the settlement in which I was born.  
  
After the War of Wrath and the defeat of the Dark Vala Morgoth, the Foe of the World, many pushed east of the mountains of Ered Luin, curious of the further lands of Ennor, now that Beleriand was no more. My father's people sought out kin that had already passed over the mountains centuries earlier, and my mother's people sought a place to carry on with their craft in peace. The last remaining followers of Fëanor gathered around his grandson Celebrimbor Curufinwion, a smith of unparalleled might, and great in his own right. Those Noldor had found it difficult to settle in Lindon beneath Gil-galad's kingship, no matter that they had no hand in the three Kinslayings, and thus, they were eager for a land of new chances and new opportunities. My mother, ever restless – especially after refusing to return home to Aman with her father after the Great War – was eager for a new beginning, and she found that new beginning in a settlement, ruled in fiefdom beneath Gil-galad the High-king.  
  
The Noldor craftsman of our group set up the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, the guild of jewel-smiths, and immediately devoted themselves to their work. The Sindar of our group took to the trees and high places of this new land. Some moved on across the mountains to where Amdír ruled in Lórinand, and Oropher further on in Greenwood the Great, but many of my father's followers remained – they having followed Celeborn from Doriath, to the Haves of Sirion, and then to the Isle of Balar and Lindon in its birth over the course the First Age and after. Many of the Sindar there were kin of mine, distantly related through an ever branching family tree, and I knew a love for the ways of my father's people as much as I did for the ways of my mother. Our settlement was a beautiful mixture of two cultures, blending two ways into life into one, and the lessons I learned in those days lasted with me long into my later years.  
  
Even though my mother's people still lived underneath the Doom of Námo as long as they stayed in Middle-earth, they still remembered the high spirits in the West, and thanked them in song during the festivals of the year. My mother was often solemn and reflective during these festivals, remembering the family and the way of life she had left behind her, while my father looked on with a tight jaw and hardened eyes. The Valar had forgotten Ennor, the land of his birth, and he had little love for the powers who seemed to have such little care for his people. Neither of my parents had great love for the Valar, but they would observe the customs of their people for their sakes. Over the years I had learned to keep myself to the roles of hostess rather than to stray near to either, they both being lost in old thoughts and old wounds as they were.  
  
While I could not say yes or no to my own devotion to the Valar, I did enjoy the excuse to revel. It was a good thing to see this people – a people who had lived through and endured so much devastation and heartache – laugh and sing in easy bliss and simple joy. So far, the fourteen centuries of the Second Age had been kind to us, and I knew that I was fortunate to have been born and raised in such a time of watchful peace.  
  
During that day, I remember the piper's tune being fast and bright. I remember laughing as I took my friend Sítheril by the hands and danced with her in clumsy, breathless circles about the clearing. We were too caught up in our laughter to pay much attention to form and style, and our steps tangled with the high grass and our long skirts. My people were not a people who bore children often, but I was fortunate to have been born in a time when many parents brought their children into the world – our kind neither marrying nor bearing offspring when there was a threat reigning overhead. Sítheril was only three springs my younger, and we had spent nearly every day since then together in friendship.  
  
Now she laughed alongside me, her black hair flying as we danced, and her pale skin flushing with her mirth. I knew that I was breathless enough to match as I stumbled, nearly taking her with me with my momentary lapse in grace. But it did not matter, for the joy of the day was nearly tangible, and not a thing could dilute our high spirits.  
  
The tune from the harp changed, signaling a song for couples. Still smiling, we made our way over to the side of the clearing, and only a moment passed before Sítheril was claimed by her intended – a tall and handsome smith's apprentice named Aradhelon. In the absence of my friend, I smoothed my skirts down and reached up to make sure that the silver of my braids were still in place. Around the circle of the clearing, tall torches leapt, throwing their flames up in time to the approaching twilight – as if Aulë himself truly was blessing the offerings given in his name that night.  
  
I waited for the music to change again, staying off to the side and tapping my foot in time with the harper's melody. I looked when the crowd took on a murmur, and saw that my parent's had joined in with the slower song. I was glad to see them doing so. Their minds had been wearied as of late, their days filled with tense talk and their eyes ever turning towards the shadow of the future. Yet, for now they cast a beautiful couple, all gold and silver in turns, the grace and power of their years and the strength of their bond a light enough to match the glory in the sky above as Anor made to set and Ithil readied to take her place.  
  
I looked around the gathered crowd, and saw where Celebrimbor watched my mother with something unreadable in his gaze. The Fëanorian had been little seen the last few months, he being all but unmovable from his forge. I looked, and saw where his white skin was pale as with sickness. His face was wan and thin, with purple spots blooming around the white-grey flame of his eyes like twin bruises. The rings on his fingers and the silver circlet on his brow caught the reflected torchlight, but even that was a false light, not quite reaching his eyes. I felt a whisper of foreboding crawl up and down my spine at the sight of him. Celebrimbor did not look to be well at all, I worried, and it was because of -  
  
“My lady,” a low, smooth voice greeted from behind me, and I nearly jumped in reply to hearing it.  
  
I turned, faster than I would have liked, to see a tall, imposing figure waiting in my shadow.  
  
“My lord Annatar,” I greeted, hiding my instinctive unease with an easy, blank look, showing neither favor nor disfavor. _Lord of gifts_ , Annatar had first introduced himself as an emissary of the Valar, a disciple of Aulë himself, seeking out others in good friendship to share his craft with. Even so, with all of his smiles and benign words, there was still an aura about him . . . a presence that felt lined with teeth and ever waiting to bite.  
  
Yes, he was beautiful, to be sure, with his bronze skin and his hair curling in waves of molten copper. He had eyes of flame, golden and red at turns, showing his affinity with the deep places of the earth in the intensity of his stare. That night he wore feasting robes in colours of warm cream and pale gold, with flashes of the deepest reds peeking out from the layers of fabric underneath, teasing the eye with flashes of blood and wine as he moved. Like Celebrimbor, he too wore gaudy rings on every finger, even through the circlet at his brow was a sharp design of black metal, rather than any precious material. He was striking, to be sure . . . but there was an aura of _other_ about him, as if he were a spirit who wore flesh and bone as if the very idea of a tangible shape was something far beneath him. His skin was like parchment stretched over an inferno, I could not help but think - as if all of the heat beneath the crust of the earth was struggling to escape though his pores, through his eyes of flame . . .  
  
For almost two centuries now, he had worked hand in hand with Celebrimbor, furthering his crafts and deepening his wisdoms. And yet, I knew . . . I _feared_ that he was the reason for the mad flame in the Fëanorian's eyes; the pallid cast of his skin and the bruises beneath his gaze.  
  
“It is a true shame that one as lovely as yourself is not dancing,” the Aul ëndil's smooth voice wrapped around the syllables of his speech like the touch of a lover against skin. Even after many years of hearing him speak, his voice reminded me of molten gold as it was poured into a mold. “It would be my great honor to remedy this most grievous of slights for you.”  
  
With a low, courtly bow, he held his hand out to me in invitation. I looked around, hoping that my face did not give my unease away. And yet, when I saw no viable distraction or excuse in sight, I courteously placed my hand in his. His skin was hot to the touch, as if there were embers beneath his flesh, waiting to take flame.  
  
“I accept,” I gave politely. When I looked up, I found both Celebrimbor's and my parents' gazes upon me. Celebrimbor looked at Annatar as if searching for a reason to boast of his guest's good manners and easy charm, while my parents looked to find fault – and their argument was an old one, tired in shape.  
  
I did not care to make this day another battlefield of words, and so I let Annatar guide me towards the ring of dancing couples. I counted out the beats in my mind, finding the dance to be in the middle of its reel. Not much of the song remained, but our time together would be long enough. I held my breath as he settled a hand on my waist, spinning me through the first step of the dance with an easy grace. Many of the women who were not dancing – and a few who were – looked at me with green envy in their eyes for the beauty of my partner, even as I fought to keep my own smile polite and serene upon my face.  
  
“You grow more and more beautiful with each passing season,” Annatar complimented warmly. His voice was like the flicker of candlelight over skin – and I knew more than a few of my peers who admitted to going weak at the knees for hearing him speak. “You are far from the child I first met, seeking out monsters in the shadows.”  
  
“Indeed, I know better now,” I said, tilting up my chin. This close, Annatar gave off heat like a furnace, turning the air thick with warmth. “Now, I simply seek my monsters in more appropriate places."  
  
Annatar glanced over my shoulder, catching my mother's gaze. I could feel the weight of her stare as it bored between my shoulder-blades, seemingly seeking out the spirit beneath.  
  
“Ah,” Annatar drew the one syllable out. I felt the thumb of his hand pass against my waist, the caress hidden in the acceptable confines of our dance. When we turned, he moved closer to me, nearly sharing my stride. “And what have you found?” When he spoke, his words were too close, his mouth nearly brushing the tip of my ear with each syllable.  
  
“I do not know,” I whispered in reply. “I cannot yet give it a name.”  
  
He laughed at my reply, and I tried to draw back from him, putting a thin space between our bodies. His voice was liquid and warm with his mirth - the sound should have been beautiful, but it was not.  
  
I once more looked over his shoulder, and saw where my parents spun closer, each one intent on the man I danced with. Annatar watched them too, his smile lazy in reply.  
  
“Truth be told, I am surprised to see you here, my lord,” I spoke rather than allowing him to take the conversation where he would. “You do not much stray from the forge as of late.” My words were polite, but there was a question lingering there nonetheless.  
  
“Once too did I serve Aulë in the Uttermost West,” Annatar said, inclining his head benignly. “I would observe the day that honors him even still.”  
  
“And now?” I asked as we spun. “Now, whom do you serve?”  
  
“I serve a great master, even still,” Annatar answered smoothly, and the torches surrounding the clearing were a ring of flame to my eyes.  
  
His words tugged at something inside of me, a riddle long close to the unraveling, even when the answer still proved to be beyond my reach.  
  
“I serve the well-being of all the peoples in these lands,” he continued, drawing himself back from whatever thought had taken his mind. “This is the only master I answer to, and great is his calling.”  
  
“Such is a master we all serve,” I agreed, watching as his eyes flickered across my mouth before turning back to stare at my mother once more. We spun, too fast for me to see the answering look on Galadriel's face, but the music then ebbed, the last notes sounding sweetly on the air before giving way to silence.  
  
We slowed before coming to a halt, and while Annatar stepped back from me in reply to the song's end, he did not turn away completely. Instead, he reached up to touch my cheek, the motion steeped in fondness, even though my skin prickled as if he instead ran the talon of a clawed hand across my flesh. I held my breath in answer, every nerve in my body seemingly braced for action as the next song began. He looked, not at me I saw, but at my parents even still, and yet -  
  
“My lord,” came a voice from my left. “Begging your forgiveness, but I wish to claim the honor of leading the lady next. Alas, I was to dance the last with her, but found myself in a conversation I was unable to break from until now.”  
  
I turned to see Aradhelon, Sítheril's fiancée, with his hand held out expectantly for mine. Beyond, my mother stopped where she had started to approach. I looked, seeing where she raised a golden brow in expectation. My father was rigid at her side, the line of his mouth harsh as he held Annatar's stare.  
  
“If I were you, I would not have left such a partner to wait,” Annatar said, even as he bowed, offering my hand to the other man. "You never know who is there in the shadows, waiting to snatch such beauty away."  
  
Aradhelon's grasp was familiar and sure, and I tightened my fingers about his as he pulled me away.  
  
“Until next time,” I curtsied, and Annatar returned the gesture with a bow of his own.  
  
“Until next time,” he answered, his voice shaped like a promise. His eyes slanted away from me, flickering over my mother one last time before he turned to join Celebrimbor once more.  
  
I shivered, grateful beyond words for my friend's aid as the next song started. Aradhelon and I had clashed mightily in the days of our childhood, we both having strong personalities and rather frank opinions - but time had tamed both of our edges. Then with his managing to endear himself to my friend, he endeared himself to me as well. Sítheril loved Aradhelon, and what she loved, I too could bring myself to see the value in.  
  
“I do believe that your mother was about to set fire to the clearing with her eyes,” Aradhelon said, a grim smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.  
  
His own observations tugged at me. My thoughts were troubled, even as I plastered a tight smile to my mouth. “They are two great powers,” I said. “They are bound to clash.”  
  
“And you think that is all there is to the matter?” Aradhelon asked, truly curious as to my opinion.  
  
“I think,” I said lowly as the music spun, “that this is neither the time nor the place to speak of such things.” I sighed, the sound deep from my lungs. “Instead, I would like to dance with my friend, and forget my cares - for a little while, at least.”  
  
“That,” Aradhelon said kindly in reply, “I agree with completely.”  
  
Now . . . now I remember that day, even though many years have passed. I remember that dance, and now, centuries later, I laugh to think that I was ever such a wide eyed child.  
  
The waves cradling the ship are rocking me now, as if sensing the turbulence of my thoughts within. Though I had not told my parents or husband, I knew that they had seen my thoughts within my mind. It had not been any mere band of hunting Orcs to find me passing over Caradhras. No, for their leader had spoken with a voice of liquid gold when asking for the location of the Three. His had been a familiar voice, from a lifetime ago . . . It was not the Dark One in person so much as his spirit spoken through one of his thralls, but I had _known_ the shape of his voice; knew its turn and sound as it looked on my torment with a low, base satisfaction in its every word.  
  
Even now, I can remember Annatar's hand on my cheek, and the rage in my parents' eyes in reply. It had been a small gesture, but a pebble atop a mountain of such gestures as the night carried on to its inevitable end.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
Shortly after my dance with Annatar, he disappeared from the festivities, as did Celebrimbor. A weight seemed to lift from the gathering as they left, and many carried on with a lighter step and an easier breath in the wake of their departure.  
  
My parents no longer danced, but my mother did touch my hand as she passed from the clearing, letting me know of her pride in the smallest of ways. I turned after her curiously when she followed Celebrimbor, wondering at what sort of unspoken test I had just passed. For a moment I considered following, before my father paused by my side and shook his head. Celeborn too looked on me in approval, but his look narrowed as he gazed after my mother. I felt unease rise in my throat, wondering then -  
  
“Later,” my father answered the unspoken. “We have waited too long, and now there is much to decide.”  
  
With those cryptic words he left me, and I turned back to my duties as a hostess, even though my heart was no longer in the revelry. Nearly an hour later, Anor was in the last moments of her descent, and the master of the feast asked me where my mother had gone. The last part of the feast was a ritualistic lighting of Aulë's flame, and as Ost-in-edhil's Lady, my mother was to light the torch. I looked, but noticed that Galadriel had not yet returned to the feast. I tried to catch my father's eye, but he was deep in conversation with two of his advisers, and I knew better than to interrupt for something so trivial.  
  
I felt at my mind, looking for that spot that bound me to my mother. Normally, her place within my spirit was a place of warm light, golden and soft. Now her presence crackled as with static, like the sky before lightning struck. I turned in the direction of her presence, finding the roof of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain through the treetops, and I knew where to look.  
  
The forges were quiet for the night, only the tell-tale sign of heat still lingering on the air from where they had been in use only hours before. I walked through the dark halls, looking up through the ornate openings in the ceiling, where the patterns of coloured glass let in the last rays of the dying sun above. I could smell smoke upon the air; I could taste metal as it bit the back of my tongue. As I came nearer and nearer to Celebrimbor's office, located above the main workrooms, I could hear the sound of voices - voices raised in anger.  
  
I bit my lip, pausing at the bottom of the wrought iron staircase. I did not want to interrupt, but I was now unsure how to leave without being noticed. Of course, my thinking that I ever did anything without my mother's knowing was but an illusion when Galadriel's voice turned as a warning against my mind.  
  
 _A moment_ , she said, and the words were accompanied by the ocean's tide of her anger. The wave of feeling was not for me, I realized after a heartbeat, but for -  
  
“ - and yet, you would risk the safety of all for the petty gain you would receive in return?” My mother's voice was an icy, low sound; one she only ever reached in her truest rage. It was a tone I had heard but rarely in my years.  
  
“Of what risk do you speak?” Celebrimbor returned, a matching anger in his voice. Where my mother was as a cold water in her fury, he was a fire, righteous and indignant - all of Fëanor's flame of old surviving in the shape of his words. “For two centuries Annatar has dwelt peacefully within our walls. He has done nothing to cause you suspicion but to give freely of the secrets of his craft – and we have learned much at his side! Yet, you would have me turn him away _now_ , all for a _feeling_ of yours? A _feeling_ of shadow and dread? Truly, cousin, I did not think you so easily startled.”  
  
“They are feelings that have never failed me before,” Galadriel retorted, the tone of her voice frigid. “And I am not the only one who mistrusts his fair facade. Gil-galad and Elrond did not even let him past the guard-tower in Lindon before sending him off on his way. Even they - ”  
  
“ - oh yes,” Celebrimbor brushed her words aside. He snorted in derision. “As your pupil of old, of course Elrond shares you worries. As for Gil-galad - Fingon's son is young, and still taken in too easily by ghost stories. He is overly cautious, and yet, it is a faulting I can allow him, seeing as he is _King_ , with the good of the many to see to.”  
  
“And do you not also have the welfare of the many to attend?” Galadriel turned his words back on him. “For the people of Eregion respect you; they look to you to lead.”  
  
“And lead them I do,” Celebrimbor replied. “I am not the only one to have benefited from Annatar's direction - each one of my smiths have grown in knowledge a hundredfold since his arrival, and we all owe our newfound talents to _him_. We are grateful for everything he chooses to give to us, and look forward to expanding our craft even more so in the days to come.”  
  
“His talents I do not dispute. Indeed, they are the very things that troubles me,” Galadriel said. “Annatar gives you just enough for you to keep him on, and for what? Have you seen yourself as of late? You are pale and wan; you eat but little, and partake in rest even less - for I can hear you working long into the unwaking hours. You have not shown yourself in public for months, keeping only to your labors until today -”  
  
“ - is that what bothers you, my lady?” Celebrimbor cut in, his voice like a blow. “I noticed the attention that Annatar gave your daughter. You should be _honored_ that an emissary of the Valar grants her such favor. It is a mark of credence towards _you_ , even.”  
  
“It is a mark of _favor_ I could do without,” Galadriel retorted, her voice turning hot for the first. “You speak from your pride. Fëanor too had such a pride in the work of his hands, but look to what end that arrogance turned him.”  
  
“Even so, his arrogance was not without foundation, for the Silmarils were the greatest work of two hands to grace these lands since the Song of Creation itself,” Celebrimbor did not agree. “I know that you were not Fëanor's supporter, even before the Darkening, and yet, even you cannot deny that the works he gave this world were great.”  
  
“And such a work of hands – a petty a trinket as jewels, no matter how holy - led to the three slayings of kin on kin,” Galadriel would not budge. “Indeed, have you learned nothing from such a lesson stained in blood?”  
  
“I swear no oath,” Celebrimbor said fervently. “What I make I will give freely for the good of all races. I work for the betterment of all in these lands, to grant a light to these peoples to rival the splendor of Valinor itself. This is a yearning of your heart as well as mine - do not deny it, for even _you_ wear the Elessar in memory of the light as it was.”  
  
“I wear the Elessar to remind myself of light in dark places – and that includes a light in marred Endórë,” Galadriel returned. “And yet, the works of your hands will set not a light upon the people you would so serve, but rather a flame. These people need not of the works of the Noldor, not anymore. They look for you to lead them in wisdom, and you would do them a wrong instead.”  
  
“As they look to you?” Celebrimbor asked, something thoughtful rising in his voice. “The following of Noldor here is strong, very strong. If ever it came to my will against yours, who would they listen to? Who would they trust to lead them true? We have led this settlement in partnership, but would you trust your word to hold as law if you were to speak against Annatar's presence publicly? For my smiths are united behind me, and they are the majority within the city - seeing as most of your husband's folk wish to take their due from the trees, and live not within our walls of stone. Your long years with your Moriquendi mate must have changed you more than I realized if you would so ignore the calling of your blood – a calling which Annatar understands to its fullest extent.”  
  
I heard the threat in his words as easily as my mother did. I made my hands fists over the metal of the railing, feeling as the air took on a tremor – a whisper of warning. For while Celebrimbor's name was old, my mother's was even older still, and her might was a thing not to be tested. I held my breath.  
  
“Speak carefully,” Galadriel muttered lowly. “I am not to be crossed, Telperinquar. Not over this.”  
  
“Neither am I, _Artanis_ ,” Celebrimbor returned, and I could feel a spike in the air.  
  
“You have changed," she said softly – icily. “You have changed, and not for the better. Once, you were a strong man who repudiated his father's deeds, refusing to swear of his Oath. But now you foolishly and blindly walk the path of your name, and you can see it not.”  
  
“And yet, you will not see me throwing myself into a chasm, or walking the seashore singing lamentations for all time,” Celebrimbor said dryly. “I will be greater than my father, greater than Curufinwë Fëanáro even, and when you see what I have been working towards . . . You will understand then, and only then.”  
  
I could feel the flame of his fervor, the light of his belief, as it filled the air to challenge my mother's presence. The air crackled, causing my temples to ache with the strength of their respective might. I took in a deep breath against the onslaught of power, hating the way that my skin itched in that moment, as if in warning.  
  
“Careful, lest you too become as ash on the wind, for that was all that was left of Fëanor's great might in the end,” Galadriel said. “Ash, and dust.”  
  
“Ash . . .” Celebrimbor repeated lowly, thoughtfully. “Dust . . . Perhaps that is all any of us can look for in the end.”  
  
He sounded, I remember now, as if he was not completely present as he spoke. His voice was distant, far away, as if he gave his words with a mouth other than his own. I dared going a step higher, and could then see them through the open door. Celebrimbor was so very pale, the veins on his hands and neck stark with his anger as he leaned against his desk. And his eyes . . . I remember his eyes being a friendly, grey colour in my earliest days. They were dark now . . . dark, and so very black.  
  
Galadriel stood very close to him, but they did not touch. Celebrimbor was looking down at his hands, as if they held his every answer, and when my mother reached over to touch him – to tilt his chin up, to force him to meet her eyes - he jerked away, his movements clumsy and violent.  
  
“I shall not ask Annatar to leave,” he said softly – finally. “I will be no such ungracious host, not after everything he has done for us . . . everything he has _revealed_ to us. If that does not make you comfortable . . .”  
  
“You would force my hand?” Galadriel asked lowly. “Really, must it come to this?”  
  
“The choice is yours,” Celebrimbor returned. “Lindon is far behind us now, and Gil-galad's rule even further still. I have the support of the Noldor, and the Sindar are too few in number to hold your will as law, not as dispersed as they are.”  
  
“So, this is your decision? You would destroy everything we have built, all for a stranger veiled in secrets?” Galadriel asked, her voice softening to match his, but losing none of its strength. I looked, and saw where Celebrimbor was not as unaffected as he would have my mother believe. His face was pained. He blinked, as if trying to free his mind from a haze. I had an uneasy feeling then, thinking only that it was not Celebrimbor himself who spoke so - for Celebrimbor was a gentle soul, eager and curious. Celebrimbor loved my mother – even to the point of hopelessness, and to see him wage such an inner war . . .  
  
“No,” he finally answered on an exhale, swallowing as he did so. “No . . . I would look ahead to everything we still could build – and build _together_. Yet, if you cannot share my vision . . .”  
  
 _We are done here_ , I felt my mother's thought brush across my mind, and at her summons, I ascended that last step and knocked softly on the doorframe.  
  
“I am sorry to interrupt,” I said when Celebrimbor's head whipped around to find me. His gaze focused, as if he had trouble recognizing me, before his features softened to a polite mask, the fire of Fëanor once again retreating behind his eyes to wait for another time. “But you are wanted; the torch is to be lit.”  
  
Galadriel inclined her head in answer. Celebrimbor's head was bowed, while she stood tall and proud in her belief. She had yet to look away from the smith, even when he refused to meet her eyes. “Think on what I have said,” she said softly, finally. "For your own sake, if nothing else."  
  
She then turned, and I followed her.  
  
I wove my fingers together and then separated them again, ill at ease with what I had overheard. I wanted to speak, but the shadows of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain were still thick around us, and I did not want to offer them my words. I looked behind us only once, and in the empty workroom I could have sworn to see a gaze of flame, staring out from the shadows. Yet, I blinked, and then the strange sight was gone.  
  
I turned away, and did not think about it again.  
  
When we returned to the clearing, Celeborn was waiting. His face was grave and drawn, and the look he traded with my mother was significant. Their bond meant that he would have seen and heard every word she traded with Celebrimbor, had she wished it, and from the way he took her hand as she approached, I knew she had. Galadriel returned the affection for but a moment, steeling herself with her husband's strength, and then walked to where the master of the feast was waiting for her.  
  
Seeing my return, Sítheril and Aradhelon drew me to the front of the gathering, and while I followed them, I had few smiles to offer my friends. The evening was tainted now, the shadow of the future darkening to match the sun in her final moments above. As Anor's last light filled the sky, we bowed, a song of thanksgiving rising on our lips, beautiful and powerful. But my heart was not in the song, even as it rose to fill the clearing. Our song mingled with the song of the earth, taking its sound from the rock and wood and stream; all notes left over from the original Song of Songs. I could fell it hum alongside my bones, settling next to my heart, and yet it did not touch me as deeply as it should.  
  
As the sunlight died completely, Galadriel took the lead in the refrain, and when she reached out, the basin leapt with flame as if Aulë himself had heard and stretched out his hand in blessing. I never knew if it was my mother's might or the Valar's indulgence that lit the flame, and even after all of these years I still do not know. For then, the Valar had seemed very far away, and would seem even further still in the years to come.  
  
When I looked up, I could see Celebrimbor at the edge of the clearing. He did not sing, and the firelight made strange shapes across his skin. He wavered oddly to my vision, and for a moment I could not tell which was his own light and which was the trick of the shadow. At his side, Annatar stood very close, and while he did not bow, he did sing, soft and low, so that no one else could hear. He looked not at the flame, but at my mother, and the look that passed between them was rife with tension.  
  
I stopped singing, and at my side, Sítheril noticed. “Is all well?” she asked, not knowing what had happened, but feeling the note of discord on the air nonetheless.  
  
“I do not know,” I answered the best I could, and she smiled in wordless support, unsure of how to offer me comfort. I tried to brush away the ill breath of premonition, but when I tried to sing again, my heart was no longer in the song. Its very notes seemed to be tainted.  
  
Instead, I looked at the flames, and let its flickering swallow me.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
My parents left the festivities shortly after the lighting of Aulë's flame. The celebration would last long through the night, near til dawn, and yet, too much had happened for them to take part in thanksgiving any longer. When they turned to leave, I followed, wishing to ask about what I had overheard between Celebrimbor and my mother. Unease bit at my bones, and I needed to know what they were thinking – what they were planning for the days to come.  
  
I followed them from the clearing, back into the city walls, and to our home. The house was still dark when I entered, though a warm glow came from one of the inner rooms, where a candle had been lit, and I followed the light to the sound of voices.  
  
I caught snippets of conversation as I came closer - _“no proof,”_ and _“grows too bold,”_ and _“I fear . . .”_ The words were low and quick, spinning over each other faster than I could follow, until -  
  
“You wish for us to leave?” my mother's voice was clear to me, shaped in surprise – matching the indrawn breath that I sucked in at her saying so. “Leave, when there is -”  
  
Celeborn did not let her finish. “ - would that I could send you both far across the sea, even, but I know how to pick my battles.”  
  
I could imagine Galadriel's narrowed eyes. When she spoke, her words were careful and slow, “This is a fight I have fought since my earliest days. And now, at the first sign of Shadow again returning, you would have me turn craven and take my flight?”  
  
“Craven?” Celeborn repeated. “If that is what you would call it, then yes, I am _craven_ indeed. If this is what we think it is . . . I want you, I want _our daughter,_ as far from here as I may. If Celebrimbor will not act, then _we_ must, and much will be lost in between.”  
  
Galadriel was silent for a long moment, but often was it when they conversed, half of their words passing between their shared thoughts before they spoke with their mouths. “To Lindon, you were hoping?” she asked, her argument resting for the moment.  
  
“I was thinking east, rather than west,” Celeborn said. “Take the dwarf-road through the mountains. Durin's folk will aid you, and then you can seek out Amdír in the Golden Wood, and then Oropher's settlement in the Greenwood after that.”  
  
“You would send me to forge alliances?” I could _hear_ my mother's raised brow. “Your ways of coaxing me into my leaving are strange indeed, husband.”  
  
“I seek not to sooth your pride, that much you know to be true of me. This is not a time for arrogance, but practicality,” Celeborn said frankly. “Shadow returns, and our people can no longer go on dispersed and closed off from one another. We will need all hands to take up a shield, and my folk are too sheltered in the trees. They will need a strong presence to organize them, to prepare them for the days to come.”  
  
Galadriel was silent. I could hear a rustling of fabric, and I knew that Celeborn knelt before where she was sitting. They were silent for a long moment. “I seek to utilize your strengths,” he said lowly – warmly. If he held her hands in his own, his grip would have been tight, desperate. “If that too assuages my fears as a husband and a father, then I will offer no defense to that. I do not see the need to.”  
  
“You shall not come with us?” Galadriel asked at last, and Celeborn sighed.  
  
“Your folk are united around Celebrimbor, but he is right about the Sindar. They are too dispersed in Eregion, and I will not leave them without a voice to follow when the error of Celebrimbor's decisions comes to light.”  
  
“He shall seek you first when his true face is shown,” Galadriel warned. “Already Annatar watches, and watches closely.”  
  
“And yet, there is an advantage to your kin thinking that you married far beneath you,” Celeborn said dryly. “Celebrimbor will not see a threat in me, and will let me go unobserved for the most part. I will be able to lead, and lead quietly – my pride is not so great that I cannot allow the Fëanorian to think he holds the minds of all in these lands.”  
  
A long moment passed, so long that I thought my mother would argue what he thought best. I felt my own thoughts swim as a tempest within me - wishing to stay, wishing to leave - and for that moment I could not breathe.  
  
“Wise you have been named,” my mother whispered. She spoke quietly, as if they were very close to each other. “And wise you continue to be.”  
  
“As is she whom I named,” my father whispered in reply, his voice soft with fondness. “Always, I endeavor to be so for her.”  
  
Another silence passed. I heard my mother sigh, and I knew that she was defeated. She agreed with him. And yet . . . “Are you certain, husband dear, that the only reason that you will not join me is that you wish not to pass through Moria?”  
  
“There is that,” my father did not bother hiding the smile from his voice. As a son of Doriath, he was ill at ease with dwarven kind. And yet, he had learned how to live side by side with the last followers of Fëanor, and I imagined that to be just as difficult for him. Sometimes, for all of the great years of our kind, we managed to carry old wounds and old grievances on long after they should have been laid to rest. This particular prejudice was one my mother had been working on for years – for Galadriel was Noldor, and she felt kinship with Aulë's children, a kinship my father would not let himself understand.  
  
And yet, he heard the words unspoken, and said, “Hopefully, Annatar's true face will show itself sooner rather than later. I do not like the thought of each of us sleeping for so long beneath different trees, and yet . . .”  
  
“We will do as we must,” Galadriel finished. “As we always have.”  
  
“Someday,” my father's voice was rueful. “This land will allow us to take a true peace, not these times of watchful rest between great threats.”  
  
“And yet, until that time,” Galadriel let her words tapper off, and then there were no more words, but another rustling of fabric, a moving of bodies as one embraced the other. Allowing them their privacy – for surely we would leave sooner rather than later, I turned, and slipped out from our home again.  
  
Our home, I thought, my mind in turmoil. _My_ home . . .  
  
I had known no other home than Ost-in-edhil. That spring I had celebrated the twentieth begetting-day of my second century. By the standards of my people, my mind was little more than that of a youth, even though the body I had was that of a woman grown. Though I felt curiosity for the lands past my own, the idea of actually leaving . . .  
  
 _The mansions of the Dwarves_ , my mind whispered. _The Vale of Golden Song and the great Greenwood of the East_ . . . it all sounded terribly like an adventure, and my hands both clenched with a desire to stay with the home I knew and loved so well, while my feet itched with the urge to walk and never stop walking.  
  
My thoughts were torn. They swam within me like a strong current between river stones, and I could not calm them no matter how I tried.  
  
Leave we were going to do so, I tried to make the thought real in my mind - and, more than that, we were going to leave _Adar_ behind . . . leave him behind with a monster in the mist and a threat waiting just beyond the light. Merely the _idea_ of such a parting caused a lance of unease to pierce my stomach. Who knew how long it would take for Annatar's plans to come to fruition? Would Celeborn's safety even be assured once Annatar was exposed for the fell face he truly was? When would we see him again? Even if a century were to pass before our reunion - two centuries, _three_ \- reunited we would be, and yet . . .  
  
My eyes burned. I sucked in a breath, but could not let it go.  
  
 _You are a child_ , my mind meanwhile berated me. _There is danger here, real and sure,_ _and your parents will have enough to worry over without the weakness of your heart._  
  
I tried to tell myself that I needed to be brave, that I needed to be strong, and yet . . .  
  
I let my feet carry me back towards the clearing, unsure of what to do to sate the restless unease within me. Perhaps the turbulent spin of my thoughts summoned her, or perhaps she sought me out on her own, for Sítheril appeared on the wooded path a moment later, her dark brow creased in worry.  
  
“Celebrimbor's _creature_ grows too bold,” I said before giving my greetings. “My father wishes to send Mother and I away before the threat grows too large for us to leave. He . . . he wishes for us to pass through Moria, to seek council and set up a plan for aid with Amdír and Oropher should the worse come to worst . . . Many leave, I know,” I tried to sit on a felled tree before standing again, unable to abide by stillness. “Those who sense violence on the air go to the Havens and eventually Valinor beyond. Those who stay are blinded by Celebrimbor's thirst for knowledge and skill – they share his simple trust, and will seek no further than that.”  
  
It took me a moment to see that my friend was not surprised by this news. She was wringing her hands together, biting her lip as she heard me out. And I realized that she was gathering herself. She wanted to tell me something I would not wish to hear.  
  
“Celebrían,” Sítheril finally interrupted me, and I flinched at the strength of her tone. “I will not be staying in Eregion.”  
  
I blinked at this, not understanding what she said. Aradhelon was one of Celebrimbor's finest apprentices – and the price of breaking such a contract meant that Aradhelon would find tutelage beneath no other smith in Middle-earth. Unless he did not mean to stay in Ennor . . .  
  
“You go,” I said, my voice stammering dumbly to my own ears. “You shall go West . . . you will flee with the rest of them.”  
  
Numbly, I processed this. Sítheril had always been a soft and gentle soul. The Shadow - war if it came as my parents feared it would - neither would treat the tender flesh of her spirit well, and while the logical part of my mind knew it so and understood, a larger part of me – a part that was selfish and possessive and _fey_ – wanted to bare my teeth and hold my fingers tight. No. She would not, I could not . . .  
  
“You would leave me?” Instead of coming out strong, my voice was a child's whisper. I sat down on the felled tree again, my legs suddenly weak to my use.  
  
“Aradhelon cannot stay,” Sítheril said, a note of pleading breaking into her voice as she dropped down to sit next to me. She took both my hands in her own, and I tightened my fingers about hers. “Please, try to understand . . . Do you have any idea what Celebrimbor has been doing? He has been forging rings, of all things. But they are not empty trinkets . . . there is power in them; a great power, an _unholy_ power. Celebrimbor thinks to forge a might to preserve and protect, to grant to Middle-earth the same grandeur of light and deathlessness of far off Aman - a home he can never return to for the sake of his pride. Annatar feeds off that obsessive goal - no good may come of it.  
  
"He . . . just last week, he forged a ring, and the apprentice they made wear it . . . He did everything that was bidden of him, everything that Annatar whispered. It was as if he was not himself, but Annatar's _toy_ thrall wearing the ring. Celebrimbor was frustrated that it did not do as he wished it to do – something about protection and preservation magicks – but Annatar just smiled, as if the ring had done what he had wished all along . . . It was not natural. The apprentice is still not himself, muttering and seeing into a land beyond our own whenever he closes his eyes. Celebrían . . . it could have been _Aradhelon_ they tried the ring on. It could be _Aradhelon_ who is asked to forge such a thing, and I cannot . . .”  
  
“You are being brave,” I finally said, forcing a smile onto my face, even though my eyes burned with grief. “My friend, always have you called yourself a rabbit-heart, but I see much more fearsome a creature before me.” I pretended to squint as I looked at her, as if looking for another to exist in her gaze.  
  
“I am nothing to you,” Sítheril protested. Her cheeks flushed, but she did not look away.  
  
“You have born every misadventure and ill conceived idea I have had for nearly two centuries,” I argued ruefully. “If not bravery, perhaps that speaks instead of stupidity . . .”  
  
I laughed, but it was a choked, dry sound. There were tears in Sitheril's eyes when she tried to smile, and the love I saw there _hurt_.  
  
“Here,” Sítheril pushed something small and smooth into my hand, wrapped in a handkerchief. “Aradhelon took this. He knew that your parents would know what to do with it – that they would understand.”  
  
“But, this,” my eyes widened in alarm as I pulled the cloth away, careful not to touch the trinket within. She'd passed a ring to me, a simple band of silver, glittering in the moonlight. The metal had a bite though, there was something . . . _something_ in the ring. A power, not fully realized, but one that searched. Was this what Annatar was using Celebrimbor for? What secret of craft was he trying to unlock? I puzzled. And to what end?  
  
“We will leave before first light,” Sítheril said. “Once the theft is discovered, we will already be riding for the Havens.”  
  
“So soon?” I asked, my voice a dry sound to my own ears. Only this morning I had awakened, confident of my world and its turning, and now . . .  
  
“We must,” Sítheril answered. “We have talked about this for a while now, and our time is upon us.”  
  
“Brave indeed you are, my Ecthelion,” I said, meaning my words, even though they hurt to say. “I . . . I do not know what I shall do without you.”  
  
A moment passed. Sítheril squeezed my hands in her own, her own face creased with sorrow. “Come with us,” she said next. “You are young, and there is nothing yet binding you to this world. Come and start your life in Aman, free of the shadows of Ennor. I . . . I love Aradhelon, but you are my dearest friend, and I do not want to leave you behind.”  
  
For a moment, I thought about it. I truly did. And yet . . .  
  
How could I explain that I felt drawn to this land as roots were to the deep ground? Part of it was my Sindarin blood, I knew - the desire to never leave the trees that sheltered my birth, that succored my soul. The other part of it was duty. I was born of great names, of a great line – a line to whom responsibility and leadership belonged in ever way. I would feel . . . selfish, if I took my fight now, if I left before seeing just what aid I could offer the land that my soul was bound to so dearly.  
  
“I cannot,” I said, feeling a twisting at my heart even as I said so. “I . . . my feet are tied to the ground, my heart to these trees. I love Middle-earth, and for that love, my eyes have not once turned towards the Sea.”  
  
“Truly?” Sítheril asked, her voice a low, wistful whisper. “I can feel it . . . the waves pound in time with my soul, it seems. My heart rises with the tides. The West calls to me, and it hurts, Celebrían . . . it _hurts_ to ignore that call.”  
  
Sítheril was Noldor, I thought. She lived underneath the Doom of Námo, the same as her parents did. The same as I did, in part, though my father's blood cut through my mother's curse. Sítheril would long for the sea until she turned for Valinor, and I would not have her stay underneath such a burden.  
  
“Remember me,” was all I said, feeling my words as they stuck in my throat. My eyes burned, and yet, I could not remember loving my friend as dearly as I did then. I leaned forward to embrace her, holding on tight as if my arms alone would be enough to keep her with me. “Remember me, as I shall you.”  
  
“I will tell my children tales of Glorfindel the Bold and Ecthelion her friend,” Sítheril promised, her eyes glittering as she remembered our childhood games – so silly now that true shadow fell over our heads.  
  
“And I shall tell mine of Sítheril the Brave, going on an adventure that not even I could bring myself to face,” I whispered, and she held me tighter. “Someday . . . someday I shall see you again. And I will wait for that time.”  
  
“Someday,” Sítheril agreed.  
  
. . . someday.  
  
Now, that day is upon me. Over four thousand years have passed, and yet I still remember my friend clearly in the halls of my memories. I remember the texture of her hair and the sound of her voice, the shape of her smile and the music of her laughter. It is a remembering that soothes me. I never forgot my friend, and for that I know that I will now remember those I left behind, holding them tight in my mind until I could hold them in flesh.  
  
It was not until my last winter in Ennor that I began to understand Sitheril's longing for the sea. Even when my mother started to look to the West in the days after the wars in Eregion, I had not understood. Yet, now . . . The ocean seemed to thrum in my bones. I could taste salt on the air with my every breath, and my spirit stretched as if pulled . . . pulled _home_ , where it truly longed to be.  
  
Now I would meet my friend again. After so many years, she and Aradhelon would have long been married. Would they have sons or daughters, or even both? Would she have grandchildren now? How many stories will she have to tell? She would have as many as I, certainly, and thinking about those whom I looked forward to meeting in Aman made the sorrow of my journey that much more bearable. I would look forward to greeting those before me, and wait for the day when I would be joined by those I left behind.  
  
It was a lesson that was harder to learn when I was younger, though. That night, I stayed with Sítheril for another hour, and then she had to take her leave. Her parents were leaving with she and Aradhelon before the morning hour, and they had much to accomplish if they wished to depart while the night was still with them.  
  
My walk home was then long and slow. I looked with eyes set to memorize upon the boughs of the trees, the stones of the path. I took in the homes with their elegant arches and twisting motives of vines and blooming summer flowers. Each fountain had a song, and I tried my best to remember each melody, as I did not expect to soon hear them again.  
  
I traced my hand alongside the stone ledge surrounding the pool outside of my house. I was not quite ready to go in yet, and so, I sat on the lip of the fountain, reaching down to trace my hand in the water as I let the song of the bubbling foam sooth me. Beyond me, the festival still continued, and the soft hum of far off voices joined the murmur of the water.  
  
I would miss this place, I reflected, a sinking feeling growing within my stomach at the thought. I would miss my home, and yet . . .  
  
“You, my daughter, have a talent for listening at doors that I would call troubling if I did not know that those who raised you have overheard worse in their time.” Galadriel's voice was wry in shape, but there was a question lingering underneath, waiting for an answer.  
  
I looked up as a shadow fell over me, seeing my mother haloed by starlight and smiling gently in the light thrown by the lanterns. Galadriel sat by me on the lip of the fountain, her clear blue eyes regarding me calmly.  
  
I swallowed, finding my words lost in my throat. My eyes burned as I wiped my wet hands on my dress, drying them.  
  
“Yet,” Galadriel said softly, “I am not here to speak of your rather considerable gifts with eavesdropping, but rather, what you have overheard.”  
  
“You want to leave,” I blurted out, the poised, measured speech I had prepared in my mind failing me. “You want to leave – leave our home, our people, and _Adar_ . . .” All of my careful arguments and thoughtful, _mature_ concerns fell to a child's whimper, lost and plaintive.  
  
“It has been suggested,” Galadriel said slowly. “And yet, nothing has been decided.”  
  
But it had been, I knew. It was a decision that would turn to stone as soon as I showed to her the trinket Sítheril had given to me.  
  
“We will leave as Sítheril will leave,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Sítheril will leave, and I . . .”  
  
“Sítheril?” my mother asked, concerned. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Aradhelon is scared,” I said, opening my mind to my mother so that she could see what I had seen. “Celebrimbor is not right as of late, and he fears Annatar as well. He . . . he wanted me to give you this.”  
  
I gave her the ring, wrapped in its handkerchief, only warning, “Do not touch it,” as she took it from me.  
  
Galadriel raised a slender brow, but I saw as her face changed when she looked down. She drew in a hissed breath, her eyes darkening as she asked, “What is this?”  
  
“This is what Celebrimbor has been working on with Annatar,” I answered. “Aradhelon rides for the Havens before first light, and Sítheril with him, so that they will be far from here when the theft is discovered.”  
  
Galadriel nodded as she wrapped the ring, putting it aside. I watched as her brow narrowed, as her thoughts turned closed from me. I felt a hum of power on the air, and knew that she was showing my findings where my father lingered at the edge of her mind.  
  
She exhaled, and I knew her decision.  
  
“There are many partings to those of many years,” Galadriel said slowly, carefully. “Some are more difficult than others, and while I would tell you that they grow easier over time, it is not always so.”  
  
I drew in my next breath, trying to appear poised and collected before Galadriel's infinite grace. I did not want to appear younger than my years; I wanted my mother to be proud of the daughter she had raised – a woman grown now, and not a little girl who waiting by the window for shadows on the path.  
  
When Galadriel reached over to cover my hands with her own, I looked up, feeling as her mind touched my own with warmth and light. I leaned into the familiar embrace, not realizing how much I needed the comfort until it was offered.  
  
“I know it is silly of me,” I whispered. “It is not as if it is her death I mourn, and yet . . .”  
  
“She is your friend,” Galadriel finished simply. “It is natural to mourn a parting, no matter its shape.”  
  
“She merely goes West,” I said, trying to make the logic of my words seep into my heart. “I shall someday see her again.” I shook my head, ruefully acknowledging: “I should be grateful that we have so peaceful a parting. I am fortunate that this is the first sundering I have yet to mourn, at that. I feel selfish for knowing grief over such a thing.”  
  
I looked at my mother, and felt my heart turn in my chest as I thought of all the losses she had known throughout her life. She had not been much older than I when taking her flight from Aman. She had known death from Morgoth's hands, taking the life of Finwë in hallowed Valinor, and then, at Alqualondë . . . Galadriel had to grow up quickly, and violently, at that. I should count myself fortunate that I had known more peaceful circumstances than she, that I knew my earliest years in a time of watchful peace, free of the Shadow and its taint.  
  
I _knew_ all of this, and yet, my heart still hurt within my chest.  
  
Galadriel reached forward, and tilted my chin up. For the first time, she looked weary before me – a woman of flesh and bone instead of something greater, something _more_. Always had I felt small beneath my mother's name and might, and now was no different as she sighed, and drew me close. I was awkward and stiff in the embrace for but a moment. I leaned into her then, grateful for the comfort as I let her hold me like a child. My eyes burned, but this time no tears fell.  
  
“My silly, foolish daughter,” Galadriel said into the crown of my hair. “Strength is not in an absence of feeling, but, rather, what you do with the feelings you have. Even more futile is judging our own strength by the trials and actions of others. Yes, I was very young when I left Aman, but you are younger still, and asked to depart on a road you did not previously foresee. Even so, I do not see you trying to convince me to stay. You did not try to convince Sítheril to stay. You have accepted the days to come, and already look forward to them in your own way. The grief you now feel will fade in time, and the strength you will learn from seeing past your grief will linger on longer than your pain.”  
  
I inhaled, a shaky breath that left my lungs as a sigh. More than my mother's words was the warmth of her spirit, cradling mine as if it were a hearth fire sharing of its heat. I let my grief rise, bright in my mind, and then I exhaled with it. When I opened my eyes again, I felt as if I could breathe.  
  
Galadriel was smiling as I drew away, and then she stood. She looked into the water of the fountain for a long moment before turning to me again. In her eyes, a decision was made.  
  
“We too will leave with the dawn,” Galadriel said. “Pack what you need to take with you, and say your farewells . . . for, the next time you see these stones, they will be piled in ruin. That much I have seen, and know to be true.”  
  
I felt my heart twist at her words, looking back at the home I had known and loved. And yet . . . home was my mother. Home was my father. Home was my friend, and would continue to be so, even as she went on across the Sea. Home was in the heart, not in the stone and mortar. I loved Ost-in-edhil for its role in shaping me, but I then decided to know joy for future awaiting me – for the new places I would see, and the new days yet to dawn.  
  
I nodded, showing her that I understood. I got to my feet, and followed her back into the house.  
  
The sun was just starting to touch the sky when we stood ready to leave. Shadow still swallowed the pathways, and many were still at the revelries in the clearing beyond, singing the sun to the sky as Aulë blessed the day following our invocations of song. I took the flowers from my hair, and braided the long mass of silver practically away from my face. I donned a pale grey tunic, and dark leggings beneath sturdy boots, fit for the road ahead. On my back, I strapped my bow and my quiver, resting alongside my pack - carrying everything I wanted to keep from Ost-in-edhil. When I was finished, I came out into the main hall to see my mother dressed similarly, appearing no less brilliant to my eyes when adorned for the road. I swallowed as I shifted my pack on my back, the days ahead becoming real in that moment as they had not been before.  
  
I stood while my parents said their goodbyes. Celeborn did nothing more than rest his brow against his wife's forehead. He held his hands to cup her face in a tender gesture, his thumbs resting on the high arch of her cheekbones. His eyes were closed, yet they said nothing where no words needed to be said. I could feel the mingling of their spirits on the air, as strong as the sun as it dawned, their bond a cord that would connect them, even when stretched.  
  
They stayed like that for a long moment, before Galadriel stepped back, something soft still glowing in her eyes. When my father next turned to me, I stepped into his embrace without speaking. My arms were tight around his shoulders, my eyes closed as I burrowed my head into his chest, committing to memory the scent and feel of him. I could feel his hands touch my hair, my back, my face; he making a memory to match my own. I inhaled only once before stepping back, calling a smile to my mouth as he rested a fond hand upon my cheek. There was pride in his eyes when he looked at me, pride and love, and I felt myself stand up straighter to see so.  
  
We then turned, ready to set out on our path. Galadriel did not once look back, but I did at the gate, turning to find my father's gaze. I held his eyes for only a moment, then I too walked on.  
  
As soon as we passed from the shelter of the trees, the three peaks of the Hithaegelir loomed tall and imposing before us, swallowing even the sky in their breathless dominance of the land. _Caradh_ _r_ _as_ , I found the first cruel peak with my eyes, who was ill to travelers and ever blanketed with storms. _C_ _elebdil_ was next, so stained in silver snow that it shimmered pink and pale orange in the rising sun as it reflected the dawn. Taller than all was the mountain Fanuidhol, the _cloudy head_ , named for his high place within the skies. He seemed to smile down at us from his great height, and I shouldered my pack upon seeing so, inhaling at the encouragement from the mountains.  
  
Onwards then, I thought, and onwards we went.  
  
We mostly walked in silence, which was not rare between my mother and I. Galadriel spoke only when she had something to say, and I was comfortable with the silence that fell in between. I let the bubbling of the Sirannon river speak to me as we followed its winding path up into the mountains. I listened, hearing both the muttering of the trees as they stretched their boughs to the sun, and the rise of bird-song as they filled the morning with their melody. We walked alongside the river rather than upon the east road, our footsteps soft in the silt so as to not leave a track, whispering through the tall grasses and hard, rocky land, careful to leave no sign of our passing through.  
  
We broke our fast only when passing the borders of Hollin, looking on the marked stones with a glance and then no more as we continued forward. The path angled itself more steeply the further we went, and the way became tricky at points, we seemingly climbing amongst the stones rather than walking them at times. These roads were still familiar to me, though, and our travel was fast for the most part.  
  
We spent that first night sleeping on the riverside, in a clearing that I remembered from years before – when my father had taken me on this same journey when teaching me to use my bow practically in the wild. He'd taught me to hunt and hide my own tracks as well as read the tracks of others, whispering the names of the trees we passed, and having me introduce myself to each in turn. Some of the older wood remembered me as we traveled, while the younger saplings looked with new eyes on the world as it changed.  
  
The next day we rested at a sandy spot on the river, one where I remembered swimming with Sítheril in the summers before. When we were very young, we would dare each other into the deeper waters, whispering old tales about a guardian of the waterways who lived there, a being with tentacles and scales, ever watching. We never once found the creature, but our games had been breathless indeed. Now the water was still and silent, and I merely looked out at imagined ripples in the calm surface before we got to our feet and continued on our path again.  
  
It was not until the third day that I came to a point in the wood I did not know. I stopped, first looking at the trees beside me, and then the trees just beyond. I hesitated.  
  
“What is it?” further ahead, Galadriel paused, waiting for me.  
  
I made to walk forward, before thinking the better of it. I paused, and looked behind me.  
  
“This is the furthest I have ever been from home,” I said, meeting my mother's eyes before dropping my gaze to stare at my feet. “Or, it shall be, after this step.”  
  
A shadow flickered, and when I looked up, Galadriel was at my side. There was something soft about her eyes, and she held my hand when she said, “It is just a step,” in a voice that no less understood.  
  
I imagined my mother – _Artanis_ as she once was - at the mouth of the Helcaraxë, taking in a breath, and then -  
  
\- I stepped forward, and the moment was gone. I walked through the new trees with wide eyes, and our journey continued on in silence.  
  
The mountain paths became steeper and steeper, and the trees fewer and fewer still. We walked through the evening hour, and when I looked to stop for the night, my mother shook her head and waved me on. “Only moonlight will let you see what needs to be seen,” was her explanation in reply.  
  
I did not understand, but I followed nonetheless. We walked as stars filled the sky, following the path until we came to where the river had its birthplace in a dramatic waterfall, pouring down from the crag overhead. This was the mouth of the Sirannon, I understood. Then, we should be . . .  
  
“But, I do not see a door,” I said, perplexed. And it was true. Here the path cut off abruptly. The rockface of the mountain was a sheer rise of stone that we could not ascend. There was no way forward that I could see.  
  
My mother smiled - a small, secret thing as she trailed a hand over the stone as if searching. “Dwarvish doors are curious things,” she said. “They cannot be found but by those who know where to find them, and are all but invisible to the naked eye, until . . .”  
  
She muttered something that I could not overhear, and a haze of silver seemed to shimmer in answer to her touch.  
  
“ _Ithildin_ ,” Galadriel whispered, and I understood.  
  
The Doors of Moria were traced with an impossibly bright light of silver, made from an ink of refined mithril – a fortune for any other land in Ennor but Moria itself, with its endless halls of true-silver. Ithildin was only visible underneath the light of the stars and moon, and I then understood why my mother insisted we continue our journey underneath the veil of night.  
  
I looked, and saw the design as it started to take shape. The doors were framed by two massive trees, their boughs mingling and twining to create the crest of the door. The emblem of Durin came into view next - a hammer and an anvil beneath a crown ringed by stars. I looked further down, and saw the eight pointed star of Fëanor upon the stone, and felt something inside of me twist when I remember what we had just left behind. In Eregion, there was still a friendship between the Noldorin elves and the Longbeards of Durin's line, even though theirs was a friendship that had since been forgotten in other parts of Ennor. My mother's kin were craftsmen, and knew fondness and respect for the children of Aulë, a respect that was mirrored by the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm. They shared their wares and secrets of craft, and between Celebrimbor and Narvi – the dwarf who had fashioned these doors, there was a great friendship indeed.  
  
As I thought so, words came into view - Fëanorian letters written in Celebrimbor's rolling, elegant hand across the face of the door.  
  
“The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria,” I read aloud. “Speak, friend, and enter . . . I, Narvi, made them . . . Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs.”  
  
I reached out to touch the glittering silver script, feeling a great might pulse in the words, _waiting_. I looked to my mother. “How shall we open the way?”  
  
Galadriel stood to the side, letting me examine the door. The silver reflected in her eyes, making them very bright in the night. “These doors are open during days of trade. We are merely early in the season for the doorwards to be here. And yet, Dwarves know of unplanned guests – you need only speak the word, and the doors will open.”  
  
“The word?” I asked, waiting for my mother to unveil some word of power or enchanted phrase. Instead, she merely looked at me, and I understood then that she was waiting.  
  
I looked to the door again, wondering at what unspoken secret I had missed. It was there in the script, I then understood, lingering right beyond my comprehension.   
  
I then remembered the long ago days before Annatar's arrival in Eregion. Often would Celebrimbor break from his work to sit with the young ones in the main square of the city. Perched on the lip of the fountain, he would give riddles, and then treats and trinkets to the quick minds who could unravel his words. Oftentimes he delighted in hiding the answer within the obvious, and so I now looked for that same easy answer in the doors before me.  
  
I felt a pang for remembering Celebrimbor this way, for such ease of humor had not been his for many years now. He no longer sat with the young ones of the settlement to play. He no longer shaped toys with his quick, restless hands.  
  
I exhaled, looking closer at the words, seeing, then . . .  
  
 _Speak, friend, and enter . . ._  
  
It would not be that simple . . .  
  
. . . would it?  
  
I once remembered that he had fashioned a doll, one who would dance, but only when you sang. When your song faltered, so would the doll's dance, and I had wanted her so very badly. Celebrimbor would not give up his wares without payment, though, so he had knelt down before me and asked, _“What has roots_ _that none can_ _see,_ _and_ _is taller than the trees? Up and up it goes, and yet, never grows?”_  
  
I had thought for the answer until I was sure that my eyes would strain from trying to read the answer from his eyes. That day had been clear and cloudless, with the peaks of the Misty Mountains visible for untold lengths behind us. I had looked, my answer plain before me, and Celebrimbor had smiled when I solved the riddle, delighted with my reply as he passed the doll to me.  
  
I remembered, and now . . .  
  
“ _Mellon_ ,” I said the word for _'friend'_ , my voice strong, and then . . . the star of Fëanor flickered, its light dominating the night as the doors swung open, revealing a dark passage of stairs within.  
  
I looked to my mother, and there was a twinkling in her eyes for my solving the riddle. “Well done,” she said simply, walking into the dark while I stood just beyond, the toe of my boot resting on the line of mountain-shadow and the dark of night.  
  
Within, Galadriel had taken a torch from the wall, and touched the tip, a blue flame leaping forward to dance at her command. The flame lit up the gentle veins of silver in the rock before her, illuminating our path. I could only espy the stairway climbing up, no matter how I peered.  
  
“Now,” she said, waiting for me, “If you are ready?”  
  
I was.  
  
This time, I walked forward with a strong step. I did not look back.  
  



	3. Entry III

How does one explain Moria?  
  
The stairway from the West Gate seemed to at first go on forever. We walked for many hours, the soft blue light from the torch revealing halls touched by silver and shadow, giving little more away to my searching eyes.  
  
At first, I thought I would feel ill at ease beneath the mountain. I had thought to miss the sunlight; the fresh air upon my face. Instead, something inside of me seemed to hum for walking through the dark places of the earth. The mountain had a pulse, a heartbeat, and I could _feel_ it thrum in time with my own pulse. There was an energy in this land; a beating of drums upon the air, and a nearly tangible warmth to the stone beneath out feet.  
  
My mother looked at me in the torchlight, and her gaze lingered for a moment.  
  
“You look like Finrod with your wide eyes.” Galadriel's voice was soft, with a brow raised in fond amusement as she made the comparison between us.  
  
I held my breath, not saying anything as I waited for her to say more. My mother was always slow to speak of her family, telling tales only if she spoke for my teaching – passing on her stories so that they would live on through the generations to come. Never did she speak of them lightly, with love and memory, for the grief in her heart. Such was not like my father, who spoke of his kin from Elmo to Thingol and Lúthien with fondness and pride.  
  
“In the early days, before the Sun and Moon, whilst Morgoth still served his sentence in the Halls of Námo, the Dwarves of Belegost worked hand in hand with Elu Thingol to build a place of safety for the days to come - for Melian his queen foresaw the Dark Lord's return, and the grief such a return would bring. Elf and Dwarf worked side by side to hew a kingdom from stone – _Menegroth_ , in Doriath that was. The city was a forest of silver, carved completely from a bed of rock; yet, when Melian's light filled it, you could fool yourself into thinking that you were in the forests above. It was a great kingdom, a great work of two hands – and your uncle tried to replicate a shadow of its glory in Nargothrond, so much so that the Dwarves called him the Hewer of Caves.”  
  
The called my uncle _Felugand_ , I remembered from my histories. _Lord of caves_ , indeed. Thingol himself was brother to my father's grandfather, making him kindred of mine, as well. Their story seemed real to me in moments like this, with my mother lost to memory and the stone halls opened wide and yawning before me.  
  
“This is in your blood,” Galadriel finished softly, still watching me. Her eyes seemed very bright then, reflecting both the blue light and the silver in the walls.  
  
“Adar speaks of Doriath often, but not much of Menegroth,” I said, remembering Celeborn's tales.  
  
“Your father never cared much for Menegroth when he could help it,” Galadriel replied. I could hear a smile in her voice – this being a source of age old teasing between the two of them, no doubt. “He stayed amongst the trees when the court was not in session, patrolling the edge of the girdle and staying finding sanctuary amongst the boughs. Yet, he was very young then – restless, even, for the Noldor were not the only Elves with uncountable days who were ill at ease with the stillness of their years. He has grown much since then, and his wisdoms have benefited from those days, no matter how dark they were.”  
  
Galadriel was silent after that, and I let the story lay. For Doriath's tale was not a kind one at its end, torn apart first by the Dwarves of Nogrod and then the cruelty of Fëanorian blades. Neither, I reflected, would be well to think on when so deep within the mountain.  
  
We at last came to an intersection of three paths, framed by three great arches – beneath which the doorwards sat. Upon seeing my mother, the guards stood from where they had been loudly playing a game of dice around what looked to be a covered well. Each dwarf was no taller than an elven child, with thick beards and iron armor worn in hard, geometrical lines. I'd met many of the dwarves who came from Moria to trade, or to work with Celebrimbor and his guild before, but I still looked on these new faces in curiosity. They were so very . . . different from the fair Elven faces I had so long known that they never truly stopped being a source of novelty to my eyes.  
  
“My lady,” all were quick to recognize my mother, and they bowed low at the waist in respect, even though she was no lady of their kind.  
  
I watched my mother stand proud and tall, asking for an audience with Fáfnir, Moria's king. Her voice rang with power, the light of her fëa taking on a physical shape as her will filled their air with a near tangible light. Even though I had spent many years in the face of Galadriel's power, hers was a might that still humbled me every time I witnessed it. The guards were quick to incline their heads and agree to lead us the rest of the way.  
  
Yet, the hour was late, and we were welcomed to rest there until the morning came. The doorwards were of the night's watch, and their games and merriment continued long into the unwaking hours. Where they had been using a harsh, guttural sounding tongue when we came upon them, they switched to an accented Sindarin at our arrival, guarding their language as they would protact a treasure horde. Even still, I found myself listening for bits and pieces that would give their own tongue away, curious as I was.  
  
When one of the guards caught my watching, he offered to teach me the game, and after a nod from my mother, I approached the covered well to observe. It was a game of bluffs and lies, and even though I was reasonably certain that I was catching on, I merely watched the guards as they played, amused by their camaraderie, and their . . . brusque ways of speaking with each other. I laughed out loud more than once – surprising both myself and them, while my mother watched with an amused light to her eyes.  
  
Eventually the dawn came, though I could tell no such thing in the dark. We rose and took the hall to the right – which led to the King's halls, I was told. The passage to the left led down, deep into the heart of the mines, and the central path led to the craftsman's halls, making it easy for visitors to choose where they needed to go. I could hear a faint hammering, a bellowing of the great forges, and I felt curiosity pique within me – everything Noldor and Aulë blessed about my spirit curious for the deep places in the rock. Perhaps, I hoped then, we would be able to do some exploring of our own before passing on from the mountains. The sounds pulling at my ears teased me, and I could not keep from wondering about the deep places of Moria.  
  
It took some time before we made it to the Great Gate. It was already noon our guards told us, and we had been walking since the dawn. The closer and closer we came, the halls became more and more elaborate, the rough stone by the entrance soothing to a polished black glass, lit by clever crystal lights on all sides as the floor smoothed and the air turned sweet. And then, there we were.  
  
The Halls of Durin.  
  
The King's halls were greater than anything I had yet to see in my years to date. There was a polished floor of black stone beneath us, inlaid with silver patterns in a great scope across the whole of the hall. The walls were of silver, and there was a ceiling of gold far above us, a great relief of Durin's Awakening shining down on his descendants below. The massive columns holding up the hall were of gold and silver and black marble mingling, tying together the richness of the materials used in the rest of the hall's construction. I looked up and up and _up_ , my mouth open for the sheer size and intricate motifs of the dwarven kings of old far above. Artfully worked windows in the ceiling above let in natural light from the sun, and I looked in wonder, amazed at how something so _massive_ could be constructed by hands so small.  
  
 _Your mouth is agape_ , my mother wryly commented as we passed through the center of the main hall – where something of a market was in session, with dwarves hurrying by on a hundred different tasks as they went to and from a hundred different stalls, or so it seemed. Above, smaller coridors led off to homes and mines and the craftsmen's places. It was a ruckus of sound and light and glitter; every precious thing beneath the earth suddenly everywhere, all at once, with such grandeur and artful design that my eyes could not find only one thing to focus on.  
  
I had never seen anything like the splendor of Moria . . . even the great halls of Erebor in the Lonely Mountain's days of glory would later pale in comparison to my eyes. Wonder and glory belonged to every turn, with the breath of Aulë seemingly lingering in every breeze of warm air from the sighing forges, deep beneath our feet.  
  
We were led from the Great Hall to one of the smaller corridors – which was still massive in scope, forming a grand and ornate path to the palace and the King's personal halls. Although somewhat smaller in scale, the corridor around us was even more ornate then the hall we had just left. I found my eyes turning everywhere, taking in all that I could as quickly as I could.  
  
The doorwards led us to a small council chamber, off to the side of the throne-room, where we were told that King Fáfnir would be honored to see to our needs personally.  
  
We were only left waiting for a minute or two before Fáfnir entered, his inner circle of elder family members and foremost advisers stretching behind him in a rigid, square-like formation.  
  
I looked down at the Dwarf-king, and yet, Fáfnir's presence was no less striking for the differences between us in height. He filled the room in the same way my mother did with her inner light, the mountain seemingly recognizing him as her chosen son, and holding him on high for all to see.  
  
I tried not to stare as I studied him, curious as I took in his visage. Fáfnir had a thick mane of curling black hair, through which lines of silver were shot through in thick, eye-catching streaks. He had two massive braids plaited down from his temples, falling in front of his rather large ears – pointed, like mine, but more defined and less delicate. Silver clasps lined each curve of his braids, while the rest of his hair was allowed to flow wild down his back. Above his brow, his crown was square and hard in shape, but it glimmered of polished ever-silver – a king's ransom in mithril worn upon his head alone. His beard was thick, falling to cover most of his chest, and that too was ornately braided and lined in silver, with great, sparkling blue stones twinkling from where they were set into the mithril. He wore rings upon every fingers, speaking of the riches of his kingdom, and yet, his hands were thick and callused from his labors – he having worked as hard as any common-dwarf of Moria to learn his crafts, thus honoring Aulë his maker. His robes were blue and black in the colors of Durin, setting off the crystal blue color of his eyes to the fullest effect.  
  
His eyes . . . for being so few of years, his eyes were clear and cutting. There was a weight to his gaze, telling where his spirit was of many years, no matter the cage of flesh encasing it. When his eyes flickered to me I found myself remembering the tales about Durin and his living forever in the souls of his descendants. I . . . I could believe that, I thought when gazing upon the Longbeard's king. I could believe it indeed.  
  
Galadriel dipped low in a bow, inclining her head before the King of Carven Stone. I blinked at my mother for a moment - for she was one whom I could previously imagine bowing to no other, before copying her. Where Galadriel would not bend past a certain point, I dipped nearer to the floor, remembering my courtesies and my place within them as the Dwarf-king looked on in approval.  
  
“Long has it been since the Golden Lady of the Noldor last passed through our halls,” Fáfnir spread his hands, encompassing Moria, silver and grand, around him. He had a deep, rumbling voice – deeper than any elf I had yet to meet. His voice was deeper than Celebrimbor's, even, and he was said to sound alike to Fëanor himself. “To what do we owe this great honor?”  
  
Galadriel inclined her head, looking Fáfnir in the eye as she did so. I could feel the golden glow of her spirit on the air, and knew that the Dwarf-king could feel it too. “We seek to make use of your halls to travel safely through the mountains,” she said. “We seek our folk in the forests beyond, and would ask your hospitality through to the Dimril Gate.”  
  
Fáfnir tilted his head. He stroked the end of his beard thoughtfully. “It has been nearly a season since hearing from Celebrimbor, or any other smith in his guild. Now, strange is it that the Lady of Ost-in-edhil would seek passage through our ways with her daughter in tow. Tell me, do you intend to return to your people in Hollin soon?”  
  
“Our travels are our own, good King,” Galadriel said, her tone arching. “Celebrimbor has merely been swallowed by his crafts as of late, which is something I am certain you can identify with, Master-smith as you are.”  
  
Rather than being offended by her frank tone, Fáfnir simply  laughed - a low and rich sound that filled the room with its warmth. “Ah yes, keep your secrets, good lady! I cannot begrudge you that, though I must warn that I shall attempt to chisel one or two away during your stay, _Master-smith_ that I am.”  
  
“Perhaps, I shall allow you to do so,” Galadriel answered, even as I looked to her, curious. _Our stay?_ I wondered, but I did not have to wonder for long as Fafnir continued.  
  
“The times are strange, and the mountains are filling all the more so with foul creature – coming down from the north as they have not since the days were much darker overhead. Stay in our hospitality, and my own will clear the way for you. I can guarantee your safety to Mirrormere itself, but further than that, I trust that you understand?”  
  
“I so understand,” Galadriel inclined her head. “And I thank you for your kindness in offering such. Your generosity shall not be forgotten.”  
  
I could see Fáfnir's smile peeking through his beard. His blue eyes twinkled. “Longer than a Dwarf's memory is that of an Elf,” he commented wryly, “but that is only because you have more years in which to hold the memory.”  
  
“With the wisdom of the Dwarves, I cannot disagree,” Galadriel said, a gentle smile pulling at her mouth. Fáfnir inclined his head in reply, clearly amused.  
  
“Now then,” he said, clapping his hands together. “I have the affairs of my kingdom to tend to for the day, but I would ask you and your daughter to dine with me and mine this eve. Until then, take your rest from your travels, and enjoy the generosity of Moria.”  
  
“As always, the hospitality of the Longbeards is without compare. I thank-you, good King,” Galadriel inclined her head. Fáfnir honored her by doing the same in reply, and then he and his council turned to a door that led to the throne-room, ready to attend to the people of Moria for the day.  
  
We exited the council chamber by an opposite door, and stepped out into a warmly lit corridor beyond. There, waiting for us, was an elderly dwarf, his back stooped by time, and his body weighed by age. I looked curiously at him, seeing where his years had etched thick wrinkles into his brow and turned his hair as white as snow. He moved slowly, his body seemingly weary underneath the task of supporting its own weight. His hands trembled, making strange shapes as they moved, as if struggling to reply to the commands of his mind.  
  
I looked, and saw for the first where age and mortality took its due from a being of flesh and bone. The sight caused something heavy to rest within me, something that I could not quite understand. Only years later would I understand the feeling of precognition – a whispering of the days to come.  
  
“My lady,” the dwarf went to bow, but Galadriel stepped forward, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder to keep him from doing so.  
  
“Dear Narvi,” she greeted, her voice warm with a true fondness. I blinked at the name, knowing then that I looked upon the greatest smith of the Dwarves since Telchar himself. _Narvi_ , Celebrimbor's friend, with whom he had created such wonders . . .  
  
“I heard that there were Elves in Moria, and my heart hoped to see . . .” Narvi's milky eyes blinked, as if trying to focus on something beyond his sight. His voice was slow and careful, concentrating to form every syllable before he spoke.  
  
“I regret to tell you that Celebrimbor is not here,” Galadriel said gently. “I know that he would have wished to, had he been able.”  
  
“I had assumed as much. Had Celebrimbor been with you, I would have felt him, for such is the spirit of him,” Narvi inclined his head gravely. “He has not visited me since the winter before last. He had questions about runes and spells of power when worked into certain ores. He had few words in question for my health upon that visit, which was not . . . not my friend as I have long known him.”  
  
I looked, and saw where my mother's eyes flickered. They darkened for but a moment as she reached into an inner pocket to take out the ring I had given to her.  
  
“Spells of power, you say? Like those used in this ring?” she asked, passing the ring to the dwarf.  
  
Where we were careful not to touch the metal, Narvi took the ring with his bare fingers without hesitating. Though his hands were old, they knew their craft well as he turned the ring over in his hand. His white brow furrowed, before dipping in a frown, clearly alarmed.  
  
“This . . .” his voice tapered off, clearly troubled. “This is not the craft I had shown to him. This is . . . something else. There is something black in this ring, something that _slithers_. This is not what I had advised my friend on, but _more_. Melt this; not in your forges, but in the deep places of the earth. Never again shall this metal be used for fair creation.”  
  
“Can you dispose of it?” Galadriel asked. “We will have not the means where we are headed.”  
  
Gravely, Narvi nodded. “I will see to it myself.”  
  
Carefully, he folded the ring back in the handkerchief. I tried to look to Galadriel, but I could not find a trace of her thoughts upon her face.  
  
“This troubles me; troubles me as it has for much too long now,” Narvi whispered, speaking as if to one far away. “I had hoped to speak to my friend one last time about my concerns, and yet, my bones are old within me, and I do not think . . .”  
  
A moment passed. My mother's brow dipped, and I saw where sadness touch her gaze.  
  
“Celebrimbor is blessed to have known such a friend in you,” Galadriel said softly.  
  
“The blessing has been mine,” Narvi said. “Mahal has looked on my life with kindness, and my days have reflected his keeping.”  
  
He reached out to take one of Galadriel's hands in his own, touching his brow to her knuckles in a gesture of respect. She touched his cheek once, softly, and in the gesture I could feel the golden warmth of her power, touching the dwarf with a gentle hand before fading away.  
  
“I would like to take counsel with you later,” Galadriel said softly. “If that would be agreeable to you?”  
  
“Anything for the Lady of the Noldor,” Narvi said, but his voice was already distant, vague. “But later, I must ask. For I am weary now, and I must rest.”  
  
“Of course,” Galadriel replied. “I thank you for your time, Master-smith.”  
  
At that, I felt her press softly against my thoughts, and at the cue, I turned to continue on down the hall. Our guide had respectfully stopped a few steps ahead, leaving us with the elder dwarf undisturbed. Then, it was time, and we were off again.  
  
 _He has suspicions too,_ _does he not_ _?_ I asked into my mother's thoughts, mindful of our guide and the dwarves' love for gossip.  
  
 _More so than even I_ , Galadriel replied, her thoughts weary against my own. _And yet, Narvi is of many years. Once he passes_ _on_ _, his wisdoms will pass with him, and many will_ _then_ _mourn for the loss._  
  
I looked at her, wondering what she knew that I did not.  
  
 _He shall not live to see the spring_ , Galadriel said softly. _Return his spirit shall to the rock, to wait for later days, and dimmer the land shall_ _be_ _for his passing_ _._  
  
Mortality . . . I let the idea of death settle in my bones, feeling the thought as if it were a weight. Narvi was scarcely older than me, and yet his body already betrayed him, and time took from him both vigor and vim. It did not seem right, I thought. It did not seem natural . . .  
  
 _These are thoughts that have plagued many before you_ , Galadriel said into my mind. _And they will continue to plague many after. Best it is not to think on them now, when there are other burdens to carry._  
  
I nodded, showing that I understood. At the intersection of the corridors, I glanced behind to see where Narvi still stood outside of the King's chambers, pale and hunched in the silver light. I looked, seeing the dwarf with the ring in his hand, and knew a whisper of foreboding within me.  
  


  
  
.

.  
  
For all of Moria's splendor and glory, the most ingenious aspect of the mountains was – in my eyes, at least - its hot springs. The Dwarves had ingeniously found a way to channel the water from the underground springs through great furnaces of heated embers, emptying out hot water into pools for bathing. The pools were communal, carved from black stone and polished to smooth brilliance. Steam billowed in the rooms like curtains, and the air smelled of the earthy freshness of minerals and the warm, clean scent of sultry heat.  
  
The hot springs were refreshing after our days of traveling and bathing in the cool waters of the Sirannon. It was the middle of the day, and so I had the pools to myself to do with as I pleased. Moria was nothing if not full of working hands, and few were those idle in the mountain during the middle of the day. Alone, with nothing awaiting me but my own wanderings, I lounged until my skin threatened to prune, and then regretfully pulled myself away; dressing again and braiding my hair with an absent hand as I reflected on the events that had transpired since our arriving at the mansions of Durin.  
  
Shortly after reaching our guest's chambers, my mother was visited by more Dwarves looking for counsel – all curious for news on Celebrimbor and his absence from Moria as of late. Instead of having me sit through what I had already heard, Galadriel waved me on to explore the mountain by myself. Now that I was fresh and clean once again, I was eager to set off on my own. There had been so many halls and tunnels that we had passed – who knew where they led, and what wonders they hid? I had specific instructions of where I could go, and where I could not go – and I had further been assured by a laughing dwarf that mine was an easy head to spot. I would be told if I strayed where I ought not – and so, with that thought in mind, I set out.  
  
I left the bathing chambers behind, and walked out into a corridor lit by blue lanterns from far above. The hall was empty, and the stones seemed to reflect sound, rather than holding it – so much so that I became aware of the sound of feet following me after only a moment.  
  
I stopped, curious. The footsteps behind me stopped to match.  
  
I looked behind me, but could so no one – even though a small giggle gave my followers away. The giggle was a child's laugh, my alert ears picked out. At the realization, I started walked again, pretending to know not of my followers as they crept silently forward.  
  
 _Silently_ . . . for all of their gifts, Dwarves were not graceful. Instead, they were strong and sturdy, and their footsteps fell to match such a presence. Their boots were thick to protect them from the stone of their home, and they slapped against the ground like thunder to my sensitive ears – even though they must have thought themselves quite quiet in comparison.  
  
I stopped again, and there it was again – the sound of laughter.  
  
Amused, I turned a corner, and waited one heartbeat . . . then two, before turning to fully face my pursuers.  
  
I only had to wait for a moment before three small figures turned the corner after me – youths, by dwarrow standards. There were two boys, stocky and strong, dressed in thick blue-grey and brown clothing, respectively. One boy had long black hair, wild and curling, while the other had a thick mane of rich brown hair. Neither had much hair growing on their faces – betraying their youth, I assumed, even though the one boy tried to braid what little hair he did have growing from his mustache. Next to them was quite possibly the smallest creature I had ever seen – a true child of the Dwarves, little more than a toddler just learning to walk to my eyes, though she must have been quite older than that.  
  
 _She_ , I thought, for the telling little pleats the skirt of her tunic made, and something about the lashes of her eyes . . . the shape of her mouth. She had no hair about her face, though someday I knew that she too would grow a beard in the ways of her people. It was rare to see a dwarrowdam outside of her mountain, and all but a privilege to see a dwarven-child – for the Dwarves guarded their young ones almost jealously, letting them stray not from the stone womb of their homes until they were old enough to hold themselves against the dangers of the world beyond.  
  
“Ah,” I said, unable to look away from the large blue eyes blinking up at me, “It must have been _you_ I heard laughing.”  
  
Sure enough, the little girl gave another little peal of laughter, and tried to hide herself behind the legs of the boy with the black hair.  
  
“I told you that she would give us away,” the boy with the brown hair complained to the other. “You should not have brought her.”  
  
“Austri is the reason we are here,” the boy with the black hair protested. He had very bright blue eyes – eyes that the little girl shared in shape and color. I assumed that they were siblings from the way the boy moved to defend her. “We could not go without her.”  
  
“Still,” the boy with the brown hair said, miffed. “She gave us away.”  
  
“Well, there is little use hiding now,” the boy with black hair grumbled. He turned to me, and tilted up his chin. For all of his youth and the differences in our heights, he held himself in a proud manner. There was an air of regalness to his bearing, I thought, a richness in the cut and fabric of his clothes, and I wondered . . .  
  
“I am Nothri, son of Fáfnir,” he introduced himself with a shallow bow. The king's son, I understood then – explaining much to my eyes. “This is my sister, Austri; and my friend Sviur, son of Hannar, apprentice to Narvi Master-smith.”  
  
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” I dipped in a low curtsey out of respect for the Dwarf-prince before me. “I am Celebrían Celeborniel, of Eregion.”  
  
When I spoke, the little girl – Austri – looked up at her brother, and spoke to him in a rapid spill of Khuzdul that I could not quite catch. Dwarves did not use their own tongue when in the presense of those from other races, preferring to speak the language of those they spoke to; but the girl was young, and I doubted that she knew anything more than the language of her birth. I could only catch every few words – having learned from Celebrimbor himself the little of Khuzdul he knew. Celebrimbor was born of Fëanor – the smith who had learned at the feet of Aulë himself, and thus so, he was an awe-inspiring figure to the Dwarves, and Narvi had shared even the closely kept secret of his language with him. The spoken word fascinated me in its every form, and I was eager to learn all I could about the tongues of others.  
  
She spoke quickly, with an accent unfamiliar to me, and yet . . .  
  
“Mithril?” I asked the word I picked out more than any other, puzzled for hearing so.  
  
Nothri looked up at me, surprised when I translated the gist of his sister's words. He looked down at her – and I hoped that he would not demand her silence, as was his right. This was a rare opportunity, and I _was_ curious . . .  
  
“She says that your hair is like mithril,” he explained, rather than hiding his language away from my ears. “It is why she wanted to follow you in the first place. And we . . . we were curious too.” His bare cheeks flushed with the admittance, but he did not break gaze with me as he said so.  
  
I stepped towards the little girl, and knelt down so that I was closer to eye-level with her. It took her a moment, but she bravely stepped away from her brother's side, meeting my eyes with her unblinking blue gaze. She was a beautiful child, I thought, my heart completely taken.  
  
“It is just hair, like your own,” I said in Sindarin as I unwound one of my braids for her to see. She blinked at me oddly before I tried to remember the word in Khuzdul for _hair_ , giving it then with a heavy tongue – awkward as it was for my throat to make the rather hoarse sound. My mouth was clumsy as it formed the shape.  
  
Austri giggled at that, looking up at her brother and chattering at him again. Khuzdul was a harsh tongue, but it was softened from her mouth, and Nothri looked on, amused. “She says that you speak like a babe,” he gave with a grin. “She asks how old you are.”  
  
I gave a rueful look. “I have just passed into the twentieth year of my second century,” I answered her. “But it appears that I am still learning, even still.”  
  
After a moment of consideration, Nothri translated for me, and Austri clapped her hands, delighted. After looking at me in a questioning manner, she reached out tentative hands to touch my hair. I allowed her to do so, tilting my head so that she could more easily reach where she wanted. At first, it felt odd to have another's hands upon my hair – not even Sítheril ever braided my hair for me, for such a thing was left only to one's parents, or one's mate. And yet, there was no way that I could deny the child her wish. For one so young, her touch was careful – considering. She said something to her brother again, and Nothri laughed.  
  
“She says that you are very old – that must be why your hair is silver. She asks why your face does not match.”  
  
“Because, child,” I said carefully in Khuzdul, “I am an Elf.”  
  
Austri tilted her head – my pronunciation and accent must have been truly off the mark, I thought. And yet, a moment passed, and she very carefully said in Sindarin, “ _Elf_.”  
  
“Yes,” I smiled at her efforts. “That I am.”  
  
Austri let my hair go, and I tucked the strand behind my ear again, watching as her eyes followed to look at the tip of my ear as one curious. She said something, and Nothri translated, “She wishes to be a silver-smith when she grows. She wants to make something as beautiful as your hair when she is able.”  
  
Something my mother had always observed in admiration of the Dwarves was their truth and honesty, for they gave freely of their thoughts, in both praise and insult. It was refreshing, she had once said, even as my father grumbled and muttered about their manners at the dinner table, he wanting little of their _free-speech_ after that.  
  
And yet . . .  
  
“I am sure that Moria will know wonder for your works in the days to come,” I told the child.  
  
At Nothri's side, Sviur snorted. “A daughter of Durin, toiling in the forge? Fáfnir will be hard to convince, and yet – his heart is stolen by this one. She may do whatever she wishes if she all but bats her eyes.”  
  
Nothri snorted. “Sviur simply does not want competition in the days to come,” he clapped his friend on the back. “Sviur is one of the best silver-smiths Narvi has had the pleasure of teaching – or so Narvi would say, it he was not busy fussing over his mistakes instead.”  
  
Sviur gave a small smile, but it was stretched around the edges, and I knew a pang for the look. No doubt he knew as well as my mother that Narvi was not faring well, and that his time was nearing its end. And yet, Narvi's wisdom would live on in the souls he taught. In this way, the Dwarves were immortal, their legacies and memories living on, even when their bodies did not.  
  
Turning my head thoughtfully, I asked, “Do you have a knife on you? My own is with my pack, and yet . . .”  
  
“Yes,” Sviur answered, looking at me oddly. And yet, he did not deny my request as he pulled a small dagger from a sheathe at his belt. The blade was an elegant, perfectly balanced weapon – with dwarven runes decorating the blade itself and the handle twisting to form a knot of three-fold strands. There was a strange white gem set into the bottom of the hilt – cloudy and softly glowing, which caught my eye more so than any of the priceless baubles I had seen upon Fáfnir's crown.  
  
“This is beautiful,” I said, appreciating the precise balance in the blade as I held it. The edge was wickedly sharp in the light of the silver-blue lanterns above.  
  
I caught the flash of a blush on Sviur's face before he ducked down to hide it away. I hid my own smile upon seeing so, instead moving to reach to the back of my head, to pull out a small lock out from underneath the long fall of my hair. This would not be missed, and would be hidden as it grew back, and without a second thought I cut through the lock. The little girl watched me with wide eyes as I did so – taking one of bands from my braids to tie off the lock of hair to give to the child.  
  
“For you, and your efforts to come,” I said.  
  
Austri gaped at me in awe, and held the lock in her hands as if she truly held strands of ever-silver. She said something stuttering to her brother – and I heard _Fëanor's_ name there. I had not meant to call the tale to mind with my actions, but I had – for like the light of Laurelin was my mother's hair, and yet, she would give not even three strands to Fëanor for his crafts. Her uncle had already been ill at ease in his bones, the wiles of Morgoth and his own weaknesses rotting in his mind to destroy what was once beautiful and mighty, and Galadriel would further his greed not.  
  
The dwarrowdam looked at me with wide eyes, before carefully pronouncing in Sindarin, “What . . . may I . . . give you?”  
  
I shook my head. “Nothing, child,” I assured her. “I am simply glad to have met you.”  
  
The little girl flushed, hugging the lock to her chest as she did so. I turned the knife in my hand, and went to give it back to Sviur hilt first, but he hesitated.  
  
“No,” he said, pushing the knife back to me. “In payment for Austri's gift.”  
  
I raised a brow, “I could not do so,” I said. “Not without offering you something in return.”  
  
He hesitated. “I . . . I saw that you had a bow upon your back when you arrived. Perhaps, a demonstration could be arranged?” he looked up at me, his request hesitant, but hopeful. The bow was not a favored weapon of the Dwarves, I understood his curiosity. “I would consider us even for your doing so.”  
  
I pulled the knife back, accepting his gift. “I believe that I could indulge you,” I answered. While I only knew they basics with steel – the bare minimum required to defend myself should it ever be needed, I was more than passable with a bow. My father was a son of Doriath, trained by Beleg Strongbow himself – and he would not have it any other way.  
  
I felt a pang remembering my father and the events that had driven us beneath the earth, but pushed that away for later. Now was not the time.  
  
“Most excellent,” Sviur said, smiling widely. At his side, Nothri gave a grin to match. “We will tell the others, then!”  
  
 _Others?_ I wondered. Apparently, I was as much a curiosity to them as they were to me. I watched the way their faces lightened, and felt a similar brightening within my own eyes.  
  
“Only,” I gave with a rueful look, “If you promise to correct my pronunciation as we go. My errors with your tongue were many, something tells me.”  
  
Nothri gave a grimace. “ . . . only a few,” he gave diplomatically, with a straight face, “Here and there.”  
  
“We will tell you,” Sviur answered bluntly instead, not bothering to hide the fact of my floundering. Yes, I reflected, there was indeed honesty amongst the Dwarves . . .  
  
“Now, let me get my bow,” I said, “And we will see what we shall see.”  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
I had not known it at the time, but Sviur _telling the others_ meant that every young dwarf in Moria seemingly gathered to see the strange tall creature wield her strange tall weapon.  
  
By the time I rejoined Nothri and Sviur, my quiver and bow in hand, they were all but fidgeting with their excitement. Eager and chattering, they led me through a maze of passageways, to a run of more practical, less ornate halls – where the daily matters of people living and carrying on was done away from the gild and majesty of the King's halls. Nothri led me through what he introduced as the Halls of Learning – where the young were educated in everything from simple arithmetic to complex-design and forge-craft.  
  
At the end of those passageways, there was a simple, coarse cavern. The walls were unsmoothed and undecorated; the cave being a natural part of the mountain, rather than a space cleared away by dwarven hands. The walls were studded with natural veins of raw diamond and sapphire, lightening the space with a dull glow. Cleverly lighted crystals had been hung here and there, pouring an artificial silver light alongside the blue and the white until the colours all but danced to my eyes.  
  
The uneven flooring and natural structures of stone made for a perfect place for the Dwarves – both young and experienced - to practice the art of the sword. Even if they did not practice to someday join the Mountain-guard, each Dwarf knew how to handle the wares they would someday forge. No Longbeard was a stranger to steel, and they knew their craft in making and execution both.  
  
Long rows of seats had been worked into one of the walls, where a good five dozen Dwarves already sat and chattered excitedly with one another. On the floor itself, there were a dozen young Dwarves donning yellow vests, and another dozen donning vests of bright green. I looked, and saw that all of the weapons they held were blunted – and coated in a strange power, both yellow and green respectively.  
  
“The powder does not lie,” Nothri explained to me. “There is no way to hide that you have been hit. We pick teams, and we skirmish. It is all mock battles, for the most part – but the Guard recruits from these games, so it is serious, in part.”  
  
Sviur patted his friend on the back. “Nothri here would rather have his nose pressed in a book, though - unnatural creature that he is.”  
  
Nothri's cheeks flushed, and he scowled as he pushed his friend's hand away. He caught my curious look, and explained, “My people do not keep the written word, so much as we pass on our stories by mouth. Oh, we can write lists and tallies and record every coin and weight of ore, but that is about it. Our lore is all remembered by our Elders and passed on in kind.”  
  
“He found the broken journals of Telchar in the Vaults,” Svuir continued to tease. “He is trying to translate them, and _record_ them for others to read. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”  
  
Nothri pushed his friend. “Telchar's insights would prove to be invaluable, should I succeed in recovering them. And while we remember our stories, we forget even our old tongues without them being written down. We write in a language half designed by Elvish script, and forget our own arts with our insistence on keeping them secret – until the lack of use eventually loses that which should have never been lost.”  
  
There was a wisdom in that, I thought – and yet, such was the thinking of the Elves. I wanted to speak, but I was drawn away by Austri tugging at the hem of my tunic, pointing to where the Dwarves were putting on their vests. I understood what she wished, and I knelt down to select one of the larger vests – which was wide enough for me to get my arms through and settle awkwardly on my chest, but quite short in comparison to my torso. Sviur tucked back a grin, and I too hid my own look as I resolved to find him once the melee started – assuming he was not on my team, of course.  
  
Austri gestured for my quiver of arrows, and I undid the strap from my back. Next to her, she had cut squares of a strong, study canvas, and gathered a pail of sand. She wrapped tiny sandbags about each arrowhead – effectively dulling them, and yet, I still was not so sure of the Dwarves' precautions for safety.  
  
She dipped each arrow in the bright yellow powder, and I hazarded my concerns. “Even if the head is blunted, the force of the arrow will still bruise,” I said. When I had agreed to a 'demonstration', I had thought to hit a few stationary targets and then be done with it. I had not pictured this at all.  
  
Austri gave a smile, and shook her head, while Sviur laughed. “The vests are strong,” he explained. “The threads are designed to absorb the shock of steel – I am sure it will absorb your arrows too.”  
  
Yet -  
  
“A bruise or two is a good lesson,” Nothri continued. “A goblin-arrow will sting much more than your blunted weapons, will they not?”  
  
Yes, that was true, but -  
  
“I simply do not wish to cause harm,” I said. “Not on my first day here, at least,” I amended.  
  
Sviur snorted. “You are first assuming that you will be able to hit us, Lady-elf,” he challenged. “We may not look it, but the Longbeards are fast – born sprinters, some would say.”  
  
“Just do not expect us to keep up in the long race,” Nothri muttered.  
  
“Unless,” Sviur drawled, “the might of the Dwarves already has you turning craven from your offer to demonstrate your skills? We understand if you wish to reconsider.”  
  
I was not so young that I could be bullied by such obvious taunts, I wanted to say. I raised a brow, and yet . . . “Which team are you on?” I asked with a glint in my eyes as I took back my quiver of blunted arrows.  
  
“Yours, thankfully,” Sviur said cheekily. “Elsewise I would mind my tongue.”  
  
“No, you would not,” Nothri snorted, calling out his friend.  
  
“No,” Sviur agreed. “But I would try.”  
  
Sviur and Nothri strapped into their own yellow vests, and then we stepped forward to where a red line had been painted on the dark ground. “The aim of the game is this,” Nothri explained. “There are five flags hidden amongst the rock,” he pointed to where I could see bright red flags waiting at various spots in the cavern. “The goal is to gather more flags than the other team, while suffering the fewest casualties possible. If you are hit in the arm or the leg, you can carry on – but without use of that limb. If you suffer a hit to the chest or back, you are out – walk to the sidelines, and your team will carry on without you.”  
  
It seemed simple enough, I thought. And quite clever, at that. Besides my reservations, I actually felt my pulse increasing its tempo, eager as I now was for the challenge to come.  
  
“Now,” Nothri gestured down at my bow. “Your job is to cover us while we go after the flags – there is no need for you to rush out unless absolutely needed.” I nodded at that. Austri had given me a blunted dagger dipped in powder, but I was better with my bow. I would rather it not come to that.  
  
“Simple?” he made sure I understood.  
  
“Simple,” I agreed.  
  
“Alright then,” he rubbed his hands together.  
  
We came up the red line, and those onlooking immediately turned from their chattering to watch. There was still an eager rumble of sound from the crowd, but it was all for the game that was about to begin. I looked at my competitors, seeing a variety of heights and hair colors before me – but each had the same eager curiosity about their eyes. That same curiosity and fascination was the very force that had birthed the mountain around me, I thought, a respect growing within me for the Dwarves and their ways.  
  
At the sidelines, Austri held a small horn. She counted down in her own tongue, and then, the horn was blown -  
  
Each team immediately leapt forward, going in pairs for the flags peaking up from the stone. Even though it was a mere exercise, they gave the mock battle their all – holding back none of their blows, and fighting with strength and force rather than speed and clever feints. I could not tell if the fervor of the game was to impress a guest, or the same zeal that they met all in life with.  
  
Either way, I had my own part to play. I saw where the green team was reaching a flag before mine, and so, I drew back the string of my bow. I exhaled . . .  
  
I hit the dwarf square in the back as he reached up for the flag. He stumbled from the force of the blow, and yet, my gauge on the sturdiness of the Dwarves was off, it seemed - for the force did not knock him to his feet. Instead, he shook his head at himself, annoyed, even as he made his way to the sidelines. A mighty cheer rose from the crowd following my actions. I caught a few cries of _again,_ and so, I loaded my bow.  
  
I was showing off now, I knew – hitting my targets one after another, even firing two arrows at once when I could, putting on the show that had been asked of me. I counted out my breaths and steadied my aim until I could all but _feel_ my father at my back as I took my shot again and again. He would have been proud, I knew, and the thought brought with it a now familiar pang of missing.  
  
It became apparent to the green team that if they wanted to take more of the flags, they would have to take out the archer. Each team had two flags each, and now it was a mad rush to the last remaining flag as all stood valiant with their last stand. In order to stay my arm, I had three Dwarves from the other team charge at me, but Nothri had stayed by my side to act as my shield, and he stepped forth to meet the oncoming team. I was able to pick off one as they approached, and Nothri entangled himself with the remaining two.  
  
Distracted as I was by the oncoming Dwarves, I heard Sviur cry from further in the cavern, “Celebrían, the flag!”  
  
For that was the purpose of the game. Ignoring the Dwarf that slipped past Nothri's defense, I took aim at a Dwarf on the green team with rich red hair, who was running as if Morgoth himself gave chase. He threw himself at the flag, his hair a brilliant halo about his head as he leapt down into the small chasm of stone where the flag was, and I let my arrow go.  
  
The arrow had scarce flown free when I felt the breath being knocked from me. The Dwarf aimed low, and I felt a blunt pain bloom at my side from where the flat of his sword struck, staining the side of my vest with green powder.  
  
I stumbled back a step, but was able to keep myself from falling. A moment after the Dwarf struck, Nothri turned from where he had won his scuffle with his own foe, and hit the one who 'felled' me on the back – effectively disqualifying us all.  
  
But it mattered not. All of the flags were gained. Austri blew the horn again, signaling a halt to the melee. Around the caverns, Dwarves stopped to help their teammates and 'enemies' alike to their feet, chattering excitedly about the battle and commenting on their own glorious – and equally not so perfectly executed – moments. The cavern was abuzz with chatter, the audience clapping and cheering all about.  
  
“I thank you for avenging me,” I wryly saluted Nothri with my bow.  
  
“I was the least a son of Durin could do for his elven ally,” Nothri smiled before looking down at the Dwarf he had last defeated – who had comically passed out on the ground, his tongue sticking out. “Oh, get up Jári,” Nothri laughed at the other's antics. “It's over now.”  
  
“And you slew the silver giant,” the charging Dwarf who had fallen to my arrow said, smiling as he helped his teammate up. “That alone is worth any mortal wound.”  
  
I touched the green powder at my side – as telling as blood, and shook my head at the camaraderie before me.  
  
“Yes, I suppose that I did,” Jári got to his feet. “All hail Jári Giant-slayer! You shall toast my name in the mead halls this eve, and sing songs of -”  
  
Nothri stuck his foot out, and Jári stumbled a step, and then two. He did not fall, but it was enough for all around him to laugh anew.  
  
“Jári Tangle-foot is more like it,” Sviur said as he came up to us, two flags held in hand. “That is a song I would sing well and loud!”  
  
Jári took a bow, unaffected by the teasing, and the laughter doubled.  
  
The red haired Dwarf from earlier came stalking over to us, the last flag held in his hand. Nothri watched him approach, and inclined his head. “Well done, Lóni. You retrieved the winning flag for your team.”  
  
I watched as Lóni approached us. His eyes were a unique shade of pale brown, I observed, nearly amber in color, but his brow was deeply furrowed in a frown. He would not look at me.  
  
My hand tightened on my bow, even though the game was done. The turbulence in the soul before me was as a tangible sensation against my skin. I watched him, wary.  
  
“I don't know,” Sviur was the one to speak up where I would have held my silence. “I saw Celebrían's arrow hit him before he retrieved the flag.”  
  
“Are you calling my word false?” Lóni's eyes flashed as he turned on Sviur.  
  
“No,” Sviur held his ground. “I think that you got the flag. Only, not in time.”  
  
“The arrow did not hit me,” Lóni ground out in a low voice. He still refused to look my way.  
  
“Could you turn for us?” Sviur did not let the matter go. “If you are powder-free, then your team won. If you were hit, it is a draw, and we shall have to face each other again.”  
  
Lóni glowered, but stubbornly stayed in place.  
  
Nothri tilted his head. “Turn, Lóni,” he stated in a low voice, phrasing a command, no matter how softly he spoke. For the first, I saw the mettle of a prince in the gentle youth. It was Durin's strength he wielded in his eyes and voice; in reply, all seemed to stand up taller.  
  
Lóni stayed still a moment longer, thus pushing the line of disobedience to a direct order from his lord as far as he could, before turning mockingly in reply. He held his hands up when he was done, as if challenging those who doubted him.  
  
“You see?” he all but growled. “The _Khulam's_ arrow struck me not.”  
  
“The _E_ _lf_ is called Celebrían,” Sviur corrected as he circled the other, “And you, my friend, are a liar.” He reached out with his axe to flip up Lóni's long mane of red hair – showing where he had a marking of bright yellow power staining the collar of his vest, right at the base of his neck. My arrow had caught him while he was jumping, his hair flying wildly from its place.  
  
“It struck me after I seized the flag,” Lóni protested. “It matters not.”  
  
“And yet,” Nothri said tersely, “You lied about being struck, rendering the order invalid. Your team shall surrender to us on account of a fraud being amongst their ranks.”  
  
The other Dwarves in green vests looked with narrowed eyes on their teammate. From my mother's tales, I knew how much the Dwarves valued honesty. The mountains were dangerous – beautiful and bountiful, but treacherous - and absolute trust needed to exist between those who made their home beneath the ground. Anything less was a grevious insult, I understood.  
  
“Apologize,” Nothri commanded tersely, his voice shaped as steel.  
  
Slowly, Lóni turned to face me. I watched him, wary – for his eyes were a dark shade of amber then, and his face was skewered into a cold look of distaste, as if I were something creeping and crawling upon the ground. I squared my own jaw in reply, unsure of how I could have so quickly earned his dislike.  
  
“I refused to apologize to one of _them_ ,” Loni said, his voice quivering with a barely restrained rage. “And _you_ ,” he turned on Nothri, “You should be ashamed of yourself. Your own mother is one of the last left of Nogrod's line. Your forefathers would turn from the rock if they knew that a son of theirs could sport as _comrades_ with a daughter of the Grey-king's ilk.”  
  
Nothri stepped forward, his eyes harsh. “You think that I could so easily forget the history of my line?” he asked in a dangerous voice. “You presume much, Lóni, and cast yourself a fool with your every word. Apologize, and reclaim what honor you can for yourself.”  
  
I waited, understanding at last the reason for Lóni's anger. His red hair and amber eyes . . . he was a Firebeard, one of the last surviving descendants of Nogrod in Beleriand that was. For the murder of Thingol their king and the theft of the Silmaril within its necklace of starlit stones, the Elves of Doriath had marched underneath the command of Beren the mortal-man. Joined by the Green-elves and the Ents of the River-lands they'd put Nogrod to the sword and reclaimed the Silmaril of Lúthien. It was an old wound between our two kinds – one that festered, always ready as it was to bubble over with fresh hurt.  
  
My own father had stood behind Thingol when he fell to the surprise of the Dwarves' steel flashing forward in violence. The loss had cut him to the quick, and it was still something he did not like to speak of, even to this day. My father too had marched against Nogrod . . . he too had stained his sword red with dwarven blood . . . With the death of her husband, Melian the Maia-queen then retreated to Valinor, unable to hold onto her physical form when her grief so pierced her spirit. Her protection fell from Doriath, and the kingdom soon fell completely to the swords of Fëanor's sons.  
  
If the Dwarves of Nogrod had acted honorably with Thingol, would Doriath still stand? Would its kingdom have survived the bloodied events of the First Age? It was impossible to know for sure, and yet, many believed . . .  
  
My mother always said to blame the _hate_ between the races – and the obsession the Silmaril itself inspired - rather than assigning the blame to a group of living souls in particular. This was a lesson my father still tried to learn to this very day, for he was still wary and ill at ease whenever there were Dwarves within the walls of Ost-in-edhil. In the end, their greed and lust for riches would trump every descent emotion - this he still believed, even when my mother held her own council, seeing possibilities for a future that the rest of us were blind to.  
  
And yet, no matter the reason, the fact remained that Nogrod was left nearly extinct due to Beren's scourge in vengeance for his wife's kin. The question of guilt did not matter when only _death_ was remembered by future generations. Only the pain remained . . . and would ever remain.  
  
I stepped forward, and held out my hand. “I am honored to meet a surviving son of Nogrod,” I said solemnly, meaning my every word. There was blood between our kindreds, and yet, it was already deep into the Second Age. Centuries had passed, and it was time to let such old hatreds go.  
  
I next thought of Annatar's eyes, narrowed and thoughtful, as beautiful and deadly as a flame . . . I thought of Narvi holding the ring crafted in wickedness, and I could not help but think that someday, such petty divisions could be the end of all with such a shadow returning to the world.  
  
 So, I held out my hand, and let myself hope.  
  
Lóni looked at my hand incredulously. His eyes were very wide, golden in the cavern-shadows, and when I at last thought he would relent, he instead took a step back from me. He spat at me, and said, “ _Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul!”_  
  
He then spun on his heel, and left, his red hair stretching behind him like a flame.  
  
I reached up to wipe at my cheek, while those around us looked on in horrified disbelief for Lóni's rudeness. There were a few cool eyes in the crowd – eyes that no doubt held Lóni's views, in part or in full, I suspected. Wetness met my fingertips, and for the first I felt as a stranger in a strange land beneath the eaves of the mountain.  
  
Nothri's eyes were set like blue flames in his face, causing him to much resemble his father in that moment. For, while I could accept Lóni's reason for his anger, his disrespect to his lord was something that would not go overlooked.  
  
“Please accept my deepest apologies for my kinsman's appalling behavior,” Nothri said, his voice dark. “It will be seen to.”  
  
I forced myself to keep my expression composed. “He is not the only one in these lands to hold such a view,” I acknowledged. I felt tired in that moment, seeing only a long fight of many years before us. “I took no offense, truly I did not.”  
  
“You are gracious,” Nothri inclined his head. “You need not be.”  
  
“I do believe that if my father was here, he would have words to match Lóni's,” I acknowledged on a wry voice. “His is not the only view at fault in this land.”  
  
Nothri sighed. I looked, and saw that I was not the only one with troubled thoughts.  
  
“You still have arrows left,” he remarked after an uncomfortable silence. “If you would not mind, perhaps you could show us how you were able to loose two at once, and still hit your target?”  
  
I felt the corner of my mouth turn up, accepting the offering for the attempt at peace it was. I took a step away from Nothri, so that as many of those onlooking could see my actions as I demonstrated the tricks of my trade.  
  
“You do so,” I carefully aligned the arrows with the string, slowing my motions so that all could see, “like this . . .”

 

 

 

.

.   
  
Weeks passed while we dwelt in Moria.  
  
Fáfnir extended his invitation for us to stay until the festivities surrounding Durin's Day, and my mother accepted – her counsel her own for her reasons at further cultivating a friendship with the Dwarves. I did not mind the delay in our journey to Lórinand, for the mountain kingdom was seemingly never ending, and each day brought something new to my wide and searching eyes.  
  
My friendship with Nothri grew as the days passed. He had a quick mind, and his ideas were many for furthering the good of his people. He filled a hole I had not realized had been left with Sítheril's departure, and I came to value his counsel and appreciate his unique brand of humor the more I came to know him.  
  
Two weeks into our stay, I had garnered trust enough to be introduced to the youngest members of Nothri's family. They were two tiny dwarflings, one a boy just learning how to walk, and another little girl still swaddled in her mother's arms. Suthri was the name of the solemn little boy, and Vestri was the baby girl. Though only a few months old, her pale blue eyes were already alert and curious for the world around her. Dwarven parents kept their children tucked away for the first few years of their lives, only showing their dwarflings to their closest of kin, and I knew the honor granted to me with meeting Nothri's youngest siblings.  
  
Nothri introduced me to his mother, Queen Fræg, as well. I instantly saw her rich red curls and her warm amber eyes, and knew her to be a daughter of the Firebeards, just as Lóni had said. Although she was not outrightly hostile, her demeanor was cool and aloof as Nothri made our introductions. And yet, she allowed me near her youngest children, which suggested some form of trust – or an attempt to rise above the deeds of the past, at the very least. I was appreciative of her attempts at extending her hand in friendship, understanding what they must have cost her.  
  
Of course, friendship with the Dwarves always came with feasting and drinking, and I tried the Dwarves' version of ale - _goraz_ - for the first time whilst in Moria. Nothri watched me with an expectant look, while Sviur had been less subtle with his amused anticipation as I choked a first sip down, and then a second. It was strong, _very_ strong in taste, and yet, in potency I had known stronger spirits with elven wine. I made Sviur swallow his smile when I was able to drink through more tankards than him while still keeping my wits about me. While I did not quite make myself ill, I was  _most certainly_ not in the best of sorts the following day. In reply, my mother simply raised a brow – knowing of my misendeavors without I breathing a word of them.  
  
At the next feast, Nothri showed me a sweet mead that the sons of Men from the Anduin vales crafted from honey, which I found more to my liking than the ale. Dwarves did not grow their own food in the mountains, rather, they traded their wares for the supplies to feed and clothe their numbers – which made for a rich relationship with both the mortal and elven settlements bordering the mountains. It was a symbiont circle between all of our peoples, and in those early days, it had been a rich relationship binding all together.  
  
While not the lilting and graceful songs I knew from my own kind, the Dwarves finished their evenings with songs and tales of their own. They had rowdy ballads, and clever walking songs; heroic lays and deep chants that told the history of their people. Unlike the Elves, who wrote down as much of our great years as we could, the Dwarves passed their tales on from tongue to tongue - and there was a power clinging to their words as a result. A haunting, primitive energy enriched their deep voices when they sang of elder days, each note seemingly echoing in the mountain halls and reverberating from the stone.  
  
Nothri told me of his wishes to start recording his people's history in writing, as queer as the idea was to his kin. Dwarves kept excellent inventories of their work, along with the history of their wares and their sale, but Nothri wished to commit his people's songs and stories to paper. It was a noble effort, I thought. Yet, I was elven, Sviur was quick to point out – of course I would think Nothri's ambition to be so.  
  
Even so, Nothri took me to the Chamber of Records to share one of the more clever Dwarven inventions. When they did write in their true tongue, they wished to keep their language close at hand, and they had invented a way to keep their words both secret and safe. At first, Nothri handed me what looked like a book of blank pages, and nothing more. Yet, that night, he took me to a room of clear stones - where the moonlight was reflected down from strategically placed crystals high on the summit of the mountain. As the moonlight filled the chamber, I watched in amazement as the pages came alive with dancing silver-blue runes, telling a tale that had not previously been there before.  
  
“Moon runes,” Nothri explained proudly. “They are similar to what you saw on the West-door, only more concentrated in this form.”  
  
The runes could be enchanted to only show during a certain phase of the moon, or when certain words of power were spoken underneath the moonlight. Either way, I thought such a thing to be wonderfully clever.  
  
“And priceless, at that,” Nothri commented. “The ink is made of refined mithril, and not a thing to be taken lightly. Celebrimbor invented the process along with Náli – Narvi's great-grandfather - and we have been using it for our secrets ever since.”  
  
I ran my hand over the page, awed by the dancing blue runes, and Nothri smiled at my honest appreciation of his people's craft. “Perhaps we can communicate in secret, even after you carry on to Lórinand? We have trade routes which pass the Golden-vale, and I can arrange a messenger to carry our correspondence,” this Nothri offered with a cheeky smile. “Here, I can show you the process.”  
  
Only in Moria would mithril be so readily available, I thought, watching as Nothri explained the science behind the dilution of the metal and the mixing it with other powders to make the ink react to the moonlight. Though Nothri did not prefer smith-work, like the majority of his kin did, his status as the king's son did not mean that he was exempt from learning the ways of the forge as all others were. He understood the workings of his kingdom to the smallest of degrees, and his dedication to the art of his people was something I admired.  
  
During my stay, I often helped him with his translations, learning more and more of his tongue as we went through the few tomes of old left over from his people's past. I even started to copy what I could in a careful script when Nothri had other business to attend to for the day.  
  
One day, he even put the tale of Lúthien in Dwarven runes for me. Ever since I first sang the lay, early on in our knowing each other, the Dwarves had known a fascination for that story more than any other. They understood it, this Sviur had said with a rueful smile, for the few dwarrowdams blessed to them meant that a male often had to go through grand gestures to win the heart of his chosen female. They sympathized with Beren's plight in a way I would not have considered before – especially Sviur, who had a pretty maiden by the name of Heith he was trying to woo. She was studying to be a wisewoman and herb mistress, and though she professed time and time again that she had no wish for a courtship, there was a pleased smile that touched her mouth whenever Sviur tried to catch her eye. Sviur said he understood Beren with Heith's father liking not of his pursuit - and that admission drew quite the smile from me.  
  
Galadriel had paused when she caught Nothri whistling the familiar melody for the first. “Your father is not amused,” she said simply in reply, raising a brow. I then knew that Celeborn had been closer than I first thought through the cord that bound their souls. Of course he would see little humor in his kinswoman's tale being sung by dwarven tongues. Even so, my mother's eyes danced with her words, she holding the same amusement I felt.  
  
During the days when Nothri and Sviur had their duties to attend to, I explored the mountain on my own. The tunnels and deep ways fascinated me just as much as the gilded halls did, and I followed the voices humming in the wall, leading me deeper and deeper still, to where a warmth seemed to rise up from the heart of the earth. _The soul of the mountain_ , Nothri had called that heat, and I could believe that the mountain was all but alive with such a cadence dancing on the air.  
  
That day, I went deeper than I had yet traveled before, following a line of ore in the rock that glittered like gold. Raw orange and red sapphires shone from the walls, drawing my eye and leading me on to where the ceiling draped in massive stone curtains and the floor made queer formations as natural pathways through the the mountain. I imagined that I could hear a heartbeat as I walked, a pulse that picked up whenever I reached out to touch the stone walls as I passed. There were underground rivers following the natural tunnels, and the day before Nothri had showed me where dancing waterfalls played over the strange stone formations in an otherly mirror of such rivers above. I sought to find that again now, letting the thundering in the rock lead me to the water.  
  
Yet, my trying to retrace our path only seemed to lead me deeper and even deeper still in the tunnels. I knew that I was beyond where Nothri had showed me, and the sound of a beating heart had turned to that of a low drumming. The air had lost both the laughing cadence of the water and the deep resonance of the mountain itself. There was something breathing _with_ the mountain, I then thought. There was something hiding itself underneath the stone; disguising itself with the fire resting beneath the belly of the earth. Where the heat of the world was natural, this was something different . . . something _more_.  
  
My skin crawled as I stepped around one last bend in the tunnel, warning me to turn back. I had gone too deep, I thought, much too deep.  
  
The tunnel fell away to a natural chasm in the ground, giving the path an abrupt end. I glanced over my shoulder, and decided to go back the way I had come. And yet, first . . .  
  
I peered over the edge, but could only see the darkness stretching down below, as far as the eye could see. The heartbeat of the mountain was _more_ here. The shadow seemed alive in this place; it seemed to _breathe_ , and I could smell sulfur and brimstone and _fire_  on the air. I took a shallow breath, and found the air sour, as with the stench of decay.  
  
I bit my lip, deciding that I had seen enough. I stood, ready to double back on the path, when -  
  
“You should know to turn back when the air turns as foul as this,” a voice hissed in rebuke. I felt a cool hand at my shoulder, turning me away from the chasm, and I looked behind to see that Galadriel had followed me.  
  
I gasped, startled – for the foul presence had turned me skittish within my skin – but I calmed as soon as I saw my mother's face. Her brow was set, and her mouth was thin with distaste, and yet, neither were wholly directed towards _me_.  
  
“I was turning back,” I said, unsure how to interpret the strange look on my mother's face. “Only, not soon enough,” I admitted, my cheeks flushing with more than the heat. “I was looking for the waterfalls Nothri showed me yesterday, yet, I seemed to have taken a wrong turn.”  
  
Galadriel was silent for a moment before turning. I knew that she expected me to follow her, and so I did, feeling a strange sort of relief with every step we took away from the chasm in the deep. Instinctively, I had known of the nameless danger my mother so feared, and I felt unease turn within me, wondering what could send _Galadriel_ to such a worry.  
  
She had been meeting with Narvi and his smiths when I left. She must have sensed me going deeper in the tunnels, and broke her council short to come after me. That, more than anything else, had questions fill my mind.  
  
“What was that?” I asked when the air at last turned fresh around us. Here the beat of the mountain was like that of a heart, rather than a drum. I did not fear speaking when I could feel the clean rush of the water again, rushing just beyond the stone walls of the passage.  
  
“A fell spirit,” Galadriel at last answered. She was silent after saying so, and I nearly asked her to elaborate before she continued, “He is a Maia of Fire, twisted from his original purpose by Morgoth's black breath in the eldest of days. How a Balrog survived the War of Wrath, I do not know. And yet, here one of the Valaraukar sleeps, and shall continue to sleep for so long as he is left to his slumber.”  
  
I felt my heart drop at her words. Balrogs had figured in nearly every tale Sítheril and I had scared each other with as children, and we had pretended to 'slay' our foes in the shadows with the breathless silliness of a child's game. And yet, each story we told was steeped in truth. The horde of Balrogs had been the bane of so many during the wars against Morgoth in the First Age, and the idea that there was one _here_ , beneath our feet . . .  
  
“Do they know?” I asked next, feeling my fear turn into the fierce urge to _defend_. Nothri . . . Sviur . . . their people. No good could come in building atop such a power, and if ever their mines went too deep . . .  
  
“They know that a foul presence sleeps deep within the rock,” Galadriel answered. “Their superstitions keep them from disturbing the heart of the mountain with their delving, and it shall keep them from doing so for as long as there is wisdom reigning with Moria's king.”  
  
And yet . . . I felt foreboding fill me, knowing that someday, even if it was a millennia from now, such wisdom could fail . . . Better would it be for the Longbeards to leave the mountain to the shadow before they had to war with such a force. Even as the thought passed my mind, I knew with a grave certainty that nothing less would disturb the heirs of Durin from their place . . . for they were connected to the mountain. These stone eves both succored them and sustained their souls; they would find no such belonging as they did within their ancestral homes. Dwarves were bound to their mother-mountain as my father's people were bound to the trees. It was a belonging that went soul-deep in the most literal of ways, and to ask them to retreat for a monster sleeping in the shadow . . .  
  
We had many years in which to address this threat in the dark. For now, the Dwarves of Moria could sleep in peace, and yet . . .  
  
To think that we had once been so naïve as to hunt for Balrog's in our child's games. The spirit I had felt . . . even when sleeping far beneath us, he had pressed as a fell weight upon my heart. He had settled as an unquiet dread against my spirit . . .  and to have faced such a thing awake and aware before me, with it's demon's breath hot as it gave birth to flames . . . Such was an evil I could not fully comprehend.  
  
I was silent as we returned to the halls high in the mountain. Though I had enjoyed my time in Moria up until then, I yearned for sunlight in that moment. I wanted the fresh air to erase the memory of what I had felt in the deep places of the earth; I wanted to reach down and feel tree-roots rather than the rock far beneath them. I wanted to look up, and see the starlight smiling down on me.  
  
“Durin's Day approaches in three days time,” Galadriel said once we stepped into the silver halls once more. “Afterward, Fáfnir has made good on his promise to clear the paths as far as Mirrormere. We will depart for Lórinand before the deep frost comes.”  
  
I had until then to say my goodbyes, I understood what she did not say. Though I appreciated the friends I met in Moria, and would continue to hold them dear for as long as I could, I was eager for the next phase of our journey to begin.  
  
 So, I caught my mother's eyes when she turned to me, and inclined my head. “I am ready,” I said, and spoke my words true.


	4. Entry IV

Durin's Day came and went, and the morning of our departure dawned upon us.  
  
Though our time in Moria was short, I came to care for my new friends during the season I passed beneath the mountain. I smiled as I said my goodbyes, but it was a bittersweet smile, and my eyes burned as I made my farewells. A few of the dwarves took turns carving their names into my bow in farewell; with Nothri being the first to ask, and the others soon following suit.  
  
“Consider it a talisman against any misfortune,” Nothri said as he carefully worked the last rune into the wood. “Let the names of Durin's children make any enemy of yours balk in fear.”  
  
Sviur carved his name next to Nothri's, and Austri took more time than all to carefully tool her name into the wood. A dozen or so others made their marks until one could not tell the design of vines and leaves apart from the deep ruts of the dwarven runes. Surprising me most of all was when Lóni gravely asked if he too could add his name. Though Lóni had not apologized to me during my stay, I had felt his eyes on me more often than not; watching me, weighing me, and he must have rewritten his opinion of me to swallow his prejudices in such a way.  
  
Understanding the apology for what it was, and also understanding what such humility must have cost him, I handed my bow to him, and he put more care than most into shaping the runes of his name.  
  
Now I stood with my mother by the East-gate, holding my bow in my hands and running my fingers over the carved names as a comfort.  
  
Before us was a wide and sprawling land. Never before had I been east of the mountains, and I now looked on with wide-eyed wonder for the endless vale stretching out below us. Northward and behind us rose the three great peaks of Moria, while Misty Mountains continued on to the north and south as far as the eye could see, shrouded in the mist of their namesake as they pierced the grey skies above. Directly down in the valley was the Mirrormere itself; the shape of the lake thrust like a spearpoint into the dale. Long and oval shape, we could not see the eastern side for the fog that billowed over the land. The day was overcast, and the sky threatened us with cold rain overhead.  
  
We set out for the mere, which was only a mile or so from the gate. Soon, we came to a tall pillar with Durin's stone upon it – marking both the edge of the Dwarves' claim on the mountains, and the sight where Durin had first beheld his reflection in bygone days. Upon seeing the monument, we took a small trail down a long green slope to where the lake glistened in its cradle. There was no wind that day, and the water ripped calm and glass-like. Mirrormere was a strange wonder of creation, reflecting the stars above even during the light of day. Even with the clouds stretching thick and grey from horizon to horizon, I could see the constellation Valacirca, glittering like diamonds thrown upon the water. Oddly enough, even though I could see the stars, I could not see my own reflection. I waved my hand, but could not see my shadow move over the water – that being a right reserved for Durin and Durin alone.  
  
Yet, I had no time to tarry in wonder for the mere. While I knelt before the lake, Galadriel remained standing and silent. She looked not at the lake, but rather, up to the crags of the mountains. Her eyes flickered over the shadows with a slow, deliberate gaze, seeking out the steep pathways as if searching. She had been quiet for most of our journey, as a doe was when aware of the hunt, and her nearly painful awareness drew my own silence in reply.  
  
Nothri had told me about the long battles his people went through to keep their northern-most boarders free of Orcs and other foul creatures. The sons of Durin had fought against the remnants of darkness since the First Age to keep Gundabad, the northern-most mountain in the range, free of taint - but, that battle was one they were ever short of completely winning. In the last two centuries, the population of Orcs had increased in might tenfold, and a strange breed of wolves, reminiscent of Morgoth's monstrous Wargs of old, began to stalk the land. Something had awakened them, Nothri had whispered his father's fears, and that awakening coincided most disquietingly with our own concerns - too much so to be mere coincidence.  
  
It was for that reason Fáfnir had cleared the ways for us. Yet, that was to Mirrormere and not beyond.  
  
At long last, Galadriel relinquished her vigil to look down on the lake. Yet, what she saw there, I did not know. A moment later, she simply turned away and walked on, trusting that I would follow. And so, follow her I did.  
  
The road turned south after curving around the mere, and it went quickly downwards into the steep and rolling land. Soon enough, we passed the laughing waterfalls that marked the beginning of the Celebrant river; the streams from the mountains meeting here in a rush to join the great Anduin river in the east. Where the Celebrant met the river Nimrodel was where we sought our entrance into Lórinand, still a half a day's travel away. Our path found, we followed the leaping and bubbling stream down into the valley, making our way quickly around its dips and turns. There were few trees here, with nothing but the few tors and other such rocky crests jutting from the hills to shelter us from prying eyes. The noon shadows were few above our heads as we walked through the tall grasses and stone ways, open for any to look down and see.  
  
We stopped late in the afternoon to break into our rations and rest by one of the waterfalls in the now strongly flowing Celebrant. Around us, trees started to dot the land as young saplings; saplings that would someday grow to include the woods of Lórinand if they were not harvested first. I felt a comfort fall upon me underneath the boughs of the trees, having liked but little the broad and open ways of our journey so far.  
  
While I sat on the rocks to allow my body a moment to rest from the quick pace we had set, Galadriel stalked the small copse with a restless step. Her eyes were narrowed, and her hand rested all but permanently on the hilt of her sword. She tilted her head, and I felt as _something_ crawled across my senses . . . a near tangible feeling of dread, like a cloud as it passed before the sun.  
  
I stood, knowing to trust my senses. Catching my mother's eye, I asked, “What is out there?”  
  
“We have been hunted since we left the East-gate,” Galadriel answered tersely.  
  
I blinked, for while Gundabad was taken, I did not think that they would so quickly take notice of two stray travelers -  
  
“ - they have been waiting for us,” Galadriel revealed, she having heard my thoughts as loud as any spoken word. “I had thought to delay long enough beneath the mountain, yet, it appears that I underestimated their tenacity.”  
  
They were _waiting_ for us? I tried to puzzle through that thought. A random party of Orc-kind scouting the land I could understand as one of the typical dangers awaiting any road in Ennor. And yet, those specifically hunting _us_ . . .   
  
For two centuries, Gundabad had been awakening, Nothri had said. While, for two centuries, Annatar had . . .  
  
I could not reason out _why_ , and yet, I knew with a cold certainty that the two were connected. What had been a mere theory and a feeling of deep unease when we left now picked up another stirring of proof, and the resulting implications were unsettling.  
  
Galadriel watched me as I reached my own conclusions, and saw the moment where my thoughts aligned with her own. She inclined her head, and though she did not say so, I could tell that she was pleased.  
  
“Time has diluted their numbers, at the very least,” she said. “We have Warg-riders following us, but they are only scouts; it will take some hours for their pack to follow them. Yet, if we were to reach the woods before them, we would have the help of the march-wardens within Amdír's boarders.”  
  
We had to reach Lórinand quickly, I understood.  
  
I looked further down the trail, ready to depart from the trees. Yet, Galadriel did not move to follow me. Her eyes were very bright in the half-shade from the young boughs above us, and the air rippled with more than the threat of shadow.  
  
“No,” she said. “The path turns open up ahead, and the Warg-riders are faster than us. Here we have a defensible position.”  
  
I looked back at the waterfall tumbling down the rock, and the various formations of stone on the side of the hill. The road we just left cut down between two hills, and if we waited from above . . . Yes, if we had to make a stand, better that it would be here than on the open plains.  
  
Even though I understood the logic of her decision, I still felt trepidation fill me. I had never before fought in a true battle, and I had to swallow a wave of apprehension at the idea of the fight to come. I had sparred with my friends as we learned to wield our arms, and I had participated in the mock war-games that the guard of Ost-in-edhil set up . . . yet, the simple truth of the matter was that I had known my every year to date in a time of watchful peace. I had only ever struck an arrow with death in mind when hunting in the wood - and praying to Yavanna for the souls of the creatures I took would be worlds different than fighting against such a black and shadowed folk.  
  
I inhaled, and let my next breath out slow. _Child_ I hissed at the wave of apprehension that filled me. I pressed my fears and my doubts down so that they lined my bones, becoming a part of me while not _defining_ me. I had been fortunate in my years of peace so far, but I had to prepare for the likelihood that such days were to be no more.  
  
I felt a golden warmth wrap around me, and I knew that my mother had reached out to touch my spirit with her own, fortifying me for the fight to come. She trusted in both me and my abilities; elsewise, I would not be here with her. And, if Galadriel believed in me . . .  
  
“How long?” I asked. My voice portrayed a calmness I did not quite feel.  
  
“Minutes,” Galadriel answered, the warmth of her presence cooling as I stepped away. We had little time then.  
  
Where I preferred the bow, my mother was an expert swordsman. She had fought in battles uncounted, from all three of the Kinslayings to the War of Wrath itself, and she knew her craft well. She would most likely triumph over whatever foe descended on us _without_ my presence, but I was determined to make an accounting for myself.  
  
Together, we moved to the lip of the bluff, both taking our places behind the trees with my bow nocked and her sword at the ready. Beneath us, there was the scouting party from Gundabad – two heavily armed Orcs astride two massive Wargs, with four Orcs following on foot behind the riders.  
  
I pressed my back to the nearest tree, calming my breathing as I settled my grip upon the bow. Underneath my fingers, the freshly inscribed runes were soothing to the touch. A talisman indeed, I thought grimly as my mother gestured. Silently, I turned and carefully took my aim . . .  
  
The first arrow was a clean strike, embedding itself between the eyes of the Orc rider furthest from us. I felt my stomach turn at the sight, but pushed that feeling aside for later.  
  
Immediately, his Warg - who had been sniffing the path in confusion, trying to pick up our trail again - threw his head back with a howl, shaking his massive body to buck his now dead rider from his back. Unlike natural born wolves, these Wargs were great and terrible looking things with dark, mad eyes and sharp, wicked fangs peeking out from their massive snouts. Their fur was brittle, almost spine-like, colored a dark shade that molted from dirty brown to a flat black. A tremor of foul decay clung to their growls as they howled, their hunt having come to fruition.  
  
They had come far in the light of day, I thought next. While not impossible for their kind to travel beneath the sun's rays, they did not _wish_ to when they could avoid doing so. They must have been determined, I thought . . . very determined indeed to catch up with us.  
  
The Warg howled again, a terrible sound that danced up and down my bones, rattling them in their places. The sound itself was worse than their horrible faces and dead, sickly yellow eyes. Just as grating was the sound of the Black Speech as it was spoken between the Orcs as they scrambled for their weapons - each discordant vowel battering my soul as a blow to the body. They had thought to surprise us, I thought. They did not plan for us to greet them on the offensive. And yet, they were quick to gather themselves from losing their companion - turning on us with a rather remarkable speed. I fired again and again, taking down a second Orc before wounding the sword-arm of the remaining rider.  
  
Galadriel had slipped down through the trees while I fired. She leapt down from the rock, and her opening blow felled the Orc she aimed for. I could not fire freely with her so close to my targets, and so, I settled back against the trees, hiding and awaiting my moment.  
  
Where the Gundabad party was all shadow and black feeling, there was a nearly tangible light that clung to my mother as she stepped forward. She wore her fëa close to the surface of her skin, and that, as much as her skill with the sword, had those she faced step back from her in alarm.  
  
Galadriel felled one Orc, and then another was pushed back from the center of the melee when the riderless Warg snapped at his packmate, trying to reach my mother first. I picked the stray Orc off while aiming for one of the monstrous wolves, knowing that they were the worst of our assailants. The Wargs were harder to kill than their riders, and it took two arrows shot as one to his skull to stay the beast. When the Orc who spilled from his suddenly dead mount spied me in the trees, he wasted no time in switching his sword to his uninjured arm and scrambling up the rocky slope for me.  
  
I took my aim, and felt my stomach turn when my first arrow went astray for my surprise with being charged. The second arrow I fired the Orc batted away as if it were nothing, and I felt a very real fear fill me as he stalked closer and closer still. The string turned slippery in my fingers, and I faltered, the arrow fumbling from my suddenly clumsy hands as I tried to nock it. The Orc was too close for me to load my bow again, and so, I forced myself to _calm_ as I instead unsheathed the sword at my side. I stood my ground, ready, when -  
  
The Orc charging me had forgotten about my mother in his pursuit. Where Galadriel's face had been a composed mask of serenity up until that point – she dealing with her foes in the same way she would stare down a displeasing voice in the Council chambers – her expression twisted into something fierce as she flipped one dagger and then a second at the Orc who charged me. The blades found the gaps between his armor, and he faltered enough for me to run forward and kick him back down the slope.  
  
I drew my bow again, trying to help my mother recover from where her pausing to help me had cost her with her own foes. Now there was only the one Orc left, with the remaining Warg still circling. The Warg had seen my mother's distraction, and leapt for Galadriel, taking her from her feet, his great maw snapping uselessly as she grappled with him.  
  
The Orc turned from me to help the beast, clearly judging me a lesser foe. He was too close to my mother for me to aim with my bow – which he knew – and I felt my own mouth bare in a fierce expression as I skidded down the slope to join the fight below. My heart was pounding, but it was no longer fear alone so much as it was _anger_ , and the frantic urge to _protect_ that filled me and put my body in motion.  
  
I did not think. I simply unsheathed the dagger Sviur had given to me, and with an inarticulate cry I threw myself against the Orc. My knife glanced harmlessly over the back of his armor, but the force of my blow was enough to knock him over and me with him. As he scrambled for purchase – trying both at once to avoid the blade in my hands and wrap his own considerable grip about my neck, I saw where the lacings holding together his breastplate had come askew in the fall. Once again, I did not think. I flipped the knife around, and -  
  
His eyes widened in shock as the blade sunk in deep. His irises were green around the edges, and surprisingly fey in shape where I was now close enough to see. _They were Elves once_ , I remembered my father's tales – he being old enough to remember the days before the Sun and Moon, when friends and family were taken in the dark and then returned, twisted and in ruin, by the pits of Angband as foes to be slain. Suddenly, the green in the eyes before me was _so_ _very_ _much,_ and I _. ._.  
  
It was this that was not – _could not_ \- be taught to us. We could practice with steel in theory, but I could now  _feel_ the life force of the body beneath me flicker and fade. I could feel his spirit shudder and cry out before billowing away like a tendril of smoke on the air. What once was alive was suddenly _no more_ , and something inside of me twisted, sickened with the knowledge.  
  
I heard a pained yelp behind me, and knew that Galadriel was successful with her last foe. I was grateful, for I did not know if I would have been able to aid her in that moment. I rolled away from the now dead Orc, my stomach turning violently within me. I tried to stand, but could not make it to my feet. I crawled one pace away, then two, before emptying the contents of my stomach in the grass.  
  
Humiliated by my body's rebellion, I retched pitifully as I caught the fresh, putrid scent of the blood on my hands once more. I tried to call my body back underneath my control as my mother knelt down next to me, but it was no use. I felt a cool hand at my shoulder, rubbing soothing circles on my back, while Galadriel pulled my hair back from my face with her other hand. My mouth tasted sour as I tried to swallow back bile, and each limb was a weak, useless thing on my body as it shuddered. My eyes burned, but I stubbornly refused to cry, not wanting to be seen as -  
  
“This is a natural reaction to seeing battle for the first,” Galadriel's voice was warm and soothing in my ear. "You will do yourself a harm by fighting it."  
  
I shook my head. “I am fine.” I tried to stand, but found my body slow to respond to my commands. My stomach was leaving me be for the moment, even though it sat like a rock underneath my skin, holding me down.  
  
“Clearly,” Galadriel's voice was dry. “Finrod had the same reaction, shortly after reaching these shores,” she revealed in a whisper. “He too was a gentle soul, and his response was as yours.”  
  
Finrod Felagund was a great hero, I tried to remind myself. He stood up to Sauron himself with words of power, and later faced his monstrous werewolves single-handedly in combat. He died so that Beren would live to fulfill his quest, and never would the stories dare to call him craven. And yet, I still . . .  
  
“How did you . . .” I tried to form my question, but my voice was raw, my throat sore from my body's betrayal. Though it helped knowing of my uncle, my mother was my goal and driving force in life, and if she . . .  
  
Galadriel blinked, and looked away at my words. I regretted my half-formed question almost immediately, knowing that her first battle had not been fighting evil creatures in a tainted land, but rather, Elves fighting Elves on the shores of hallowed Valinor beyond. Even to the Uttermost West did Morgoth's shadow reach and taint all that should have been beauty and light when her father's kin attacked her mother's people for a way to sail to a doomed land, and she . . . I winced, hating that I had not thought my words through before speaking them.  
  
I pulled myself together while Galadriel set her jaw in memory of the First Kinslaying. She passed me her canteen upon seeing that I had recovered enough to drink, and I took the water, grateful to clean out my mouth. A moment later, I felt as if I could move again, and so I stood. My first few steps were unsteady, but I convinced my legs to carry me back up the slope to the river, where I washed my face and hands. I next cleaned Sviur's blade in the cool current, careful to see that every intricate groove of the hilt was once again pristine before I returned it to its place at my side. I then took in a deep breath, centering myself. Those were only scouts, and if we did not move quickly . . .  
  
By the time I returned to my mother, she had already pulled the bodies away from the path. Here, they would still be found, but it would not be as obvious now that there a battle had occurred. Our time was now numbered, I knew.  
  
Galadriel looked down into the valley, where the forest of Lórinand waited for us, still some hours away. Her mouth settled in a grim line, but it was not an impossible road before us if we moved quickly enough. I too looked, and felt as the warmth of her spirit touched mine – both fortifying and assuring me that she was not harmed by the wake of her memories. I clung to both as I took back the arrows she had gathered for me, filling my quiver once more. I settled my weapons on my back, and was ready.  
  
“Come,” she inclined her head, and we set off at a brisk run for the forest below.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
At long last, we crossed into the great forest of Lórinand.  
  
About a mile into the forest, where the hills still rolled underneath their thick blanket of towering green trees, we waded across the river Nimrodel. The river was more of a broad stream, leaping and bubbling playfully down from the Misty Mountains. Here the land was still relatively steep, and there were waterfalls aplenty as the river made its way to join the Anduin in the east. Night fell quickly in the forest, and the river already reflected shadow alongside the dying sunlight. From dawn until late noon, the Nimrodel was said to show the colors of the rainbow, constantly dancing with light and life as it flowed, and I could believe such stories from the way the colours of the twilight glittered in reflection.  
  
The river was also whispered to have healing properties, but I was not sure what was song and what was truth from the stories told of this land. Either way, the waters – even while cold – felt cleansing as we waded across, holding our packs above our heads so as to prevent them from getting wet. The dancing current seemed to prod me with curious fingers, seeking out my disquiet and soothing it away with the cadence of its song. The water tinkled and bubbled and danced, and I felt refreshed once we reached the opposite bank. The river splashed merrily as we left its hold, as if biding us a farewell, and I reflected that the songs were true about that much, at least.  
  
Overhead, the setting sun painted the green forest canopy in vibrant shades of gold and red. The woods were dense, even though we had just barely pierced the outer eaves of the forest. I touched the smooth bark of an oak as I passed, giving my greetings to the wood and allowing the forest to know me in return; just as my father had taught me to do, so many years ago now. The younger trees were curious, seemingly tilting their heads to our arrival, while the older trees slumbered on in silence, they needing more than the passage of two elves beneath their boughs to move them from their rest. I felt my spirit stretch to match the pulse of the forest, at ease beneath their branches as I had not felt in the open places we had earlier passed through.  
  
We stopped on the other side of the river, my mother still looking behind us, ever watchful for our foes. The forest would give our pursuers pause, but depending on what lash was at their heels, the eaves of Lórinand would stop them not.  
  
“We will not move with the dark,” Galadriel decided, her mouth fixed into a thin line. Depending on the rotation of the wardens, Amdír's folk could be mere miles away or several, and we would take no needless chances.  
  
She looked up to branches, and I understood her intentions. Without her saying a word, I shouldered my pack and then leapt up to grasp the first limb I could, then swinging myself up into the welcoming branches of the obliging oak. His limbs were old and broad, and they would hold us for the night.  
  
I climbed, and stopped only when Galadriel nodded and put her own pack down, satisfied with our place in the boughs. I knelt down to peer through the leaves, glancing to see where our sight of the path below was clear, while we were still hidden from the view of any on the forest floor. It was a wise choice, and yet, I found that peace was slow to come upon me.  
  
After regarding me for a moment, Galadriel sat down between the branches, resting her back against the trunk and folding her legs gracefully over the angle made by the intersecting limbs. Still sensing my mood from earlier, she opened up one of her arms in invitation. When I sat beside her, she wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and I rested my head underneath her chin without saying a word. It was not often that she held me like this, and I had not realized how much I needed the comfort until it was given.  
  
My eyes burned, and my jaw clenched as I fought against the strange urge I had to cry. Galadriel ran a gentle hand through my hair, chasing tangles away as she did so. I could feel the slow and steady pulse of her heart; the even rise and fall of her lungs as she breathed. Each soothed me as I thought about the earlier events of the day, and remembered . . .  
  
“I could _feel_ his soul as it left,” I acknowledged on a whisper. “Even though he was a creature with evil intentions, he was still _alive,_ and due to me he now is not.”  
  
It was relatively easy shooting at an enemy from a distance, I thought next. It was easier to see my foe fall when I was not eye to eye with them. There I could be detached, not seeing their life-force flicker, not feeling as their body stilled and their breath gave out . . .  
  
I swallowed, tasting bile as it rose again.  
  
“The guilt you feel humanizes you,” Galadriel said after a moment. “Good it is that your heart is not so callused by battle that it cannot mourn so; even so, you will do yourself a harm if you let such thoughts cripple you. You had no choice but to do as was needed; there was no evil in your actions.”  
  
 _Evil_ , I thought with a pang. Once, my father told me that he viewed each Orc he killed as a mercy – freeing them from the twisted parameters of their existences, and saving countless others who would have suffered from their evil in the future. I had thought to understand his words when he spoke them, but now, thinking about the Orc's green, _fey_ eyes, and the light within them as it faded . . . I understood Celeborn's words truly now.  
  
I knew that this was a guilt that would become easier to bear in time, but I was thankful that my mother did not say so. Instead, she was silent while the sun continued to set overhead. The world around us was nearly shadow when she let out a breath, ready to speak again.  
  
“You know that your birth came late into my marriage with your father, even according to the years of our kind,” Galadriel finally said. Her words were given in a low voice, rather than strongly spoken. “I know that you have also heard whispers theorizing the whys of our making such a decision.”  
  
I had - especially from the Sindarin mouths who approved but little for one of their foremost princes taking a Noldo bride. It was something that went unspoken in our family, for I had never taken much stock in the whispers of others. My mother did not let the majority of her true thoughts and feelings show outside of the walls of our home, and others could think what they wished to as a result.  
  
“And yet,” Galadriel continued, “it was not that I was hesitant to share my power . . . to share my _soul_ with the child I would birth . . .” She faltered for a moment, and I knew that while not true in whole, there may have been a flickering of accuracy in the words. There was a reason that I so resembled my father in both face and talents, the whispers were quick to say - for, while the fire of _Artanis_ as my mother once was now tempered with wisdom, and her thirst for leadership was soothed with duty and self-sacrifice . . .  
  
I pushed those thoughts away before thinking them completely, liking them but little.  
  
A moment later, she started again. “It was not that I was loath to give of my power to another, so much as I feared the power that a child could have over _me_. I spent my earliest years sheltered by the grace of Valinor, and yet, even to those hallowed lands the Shadow found a way to reach. Here, in Endórë, the fight I encountered was so much more than my naïve wishes for lands beyond my own could have possibly fathomed. The trials we faced upon reaching Middle-earth . . . the days we endured, toiling underneath Morgoth's shadow . . . I shared so many with Mandos in those days, and the idea that I would possibly have to part with a _child_ – one who was not only beloved by me, but _of_ me . . . ”  
  
She paused to take a breath and collect her words once more. Her arms tightened around me, even as my own eyes burned - for even though I had never doubted my mother's love for me, her feelings were never plainly spoken. Ever could I feel her love wrap around my spirit and succor my soul, and yet, Galadriel spoke frankly of her own heart but little, and I cherished each word as they were softly spoken.  
  
“Your father and I waited to have a child until after Morgoth was defeated, and even then I was hesitant to bring you into the world,” Galadriel continued. “For over two hundred years you were able to know peace, and perhaps you shall for two hundred more. Yet, the truth remains that Shadow has again returned to this land, and not even I can see the tolls that will be taken beyond _knowing_ that there are costs that shall be paid.  
  
“I never wanted you to see what you saw today, and yet, before this fight is over you will have seen even worse still. This is something I cannot shield you from, and something that, someday, I may fail in protecting you from. And that thought is one that brings me true fear indeed.”  
  
I could feel as she took in a deep breath, as if steeling herself against the whispers of her foresight. While she saw many things in her visions, most were things that simply could be, and would never come to pass, while others were true futures hidden beneath infinite possibilities. It was both a gift and a curse, her insights, and I pressed closer to her in reply, wishing that I could ease her fears with my presence alone.  
  
She wanted to keep me safe from the horrors she herself had seen, this I had long known. Even though this land would never again be swallowed by darkness as it was underneath Morgoth's rule; never again would our kind turn on each other as they had when Fëanor's sons sought their crippling Oath, the fact remained that this world was still marred by Morgoth's taint in the beginning of all things, and it would continue to remain so until the breaking and reforging of the world. Each peace would be watchful only, and ever would those living upon Arda survive each wave of Shadow until the end of all things.  
  
Thus, our lives were not about avoiding dark days, per say, so much as it was how we dealt with those days . . . and helped others cope with, and triumph over, them in turn.  
  
I exhaled, and reached out to that part of my spirit that was my mother in shape. This time, I gave of my own strength, hoping to comfort her as she so often did for me. In reply, the golden light of her spirit turned with a nearly tangible radiance, brightening the night. I let the familiar warmth wash over me in turn, and felt my spirits lift.  
  
“I am ready,” I said simply in reply, meeting my mother's eyes and meaning my every word.  
  
“Yes . . . I do believe you are,” Galadriel said after a moment. She sighed, her breath warm as it ghosted atop my head. “Now, try to rest. I will awaken you if there is movement in the night.”  
  
“And you will awaken me so that you too can rest,” I said, not letting her mother me completely. “Adar showed me how to keep a watch, and I can.”  
  
Galadriel was silent for a moment. “Very well,” was all that she said, but I knew that she would do so. I could feel her pride color her warmth as she disengaged her spirit from mine, and that more than anything else had peace returning to my being.  
  
I turned from her to find a comfortable place amongst the tree limbs, freeing her so that she could move without disturbing me if need be. This would not be my first time sleeping in the trees, and with that thought, I remembered being much younger than I was now. I remembered my father taking me into the woods, teaching me each name of the trees in their turn. Celeborn had whispered tales behind their stretch of limb and shape of leaf, and while he spoke the trees would seemingly sway before him in reply.  
  
I placed my hand against the bark of the oak, and closed my eye as I remembered his lessons and his love. A part of me even knew a brief moment of regret for knowing that I was experiencing one of the great forests of old while he was not.  
  
I next thought of the Orcs chasing us . . . of Annatar with his beautiful eyes of flame, sharing a city wall with my father . . . a city wall that Celeborn no longer deemed safe enough to hold the rest of the family. Ever did the Shadow return to this land, and yet, he was where its black touch would swallow first, and swallow with a vengeance. Fear and worry were a bitter taste in my mouth, even as I tried to swallow them away.  
  
In the end, I stopped trying. Instead, I pressed my brow to the wood beneath me, and attempted to find what sleep I could.  
  
I do not know for how long I slept. I only knew that when I opened my eyes the overcast skies from earlier had given way to a light rain that pitter-pattered against the leaves. I could see little on the ground beneath us, and the thunder rumbling in the distance distorted my hearing. Even so, I could feel a whisper of disquiet against my skin, the same as I had felt from the Orc-pack earlier. My senses stirred, crawling in warning for the whisper of _wrongness_ on the air, and when my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could see shadows moving in the night. My ears perked, picking up the sound of heavy boots splashing across the Nimrodel, just beyond. The song of the river turned discordant, as if mourning to have such black feet piercing her waters, and I awakened fully at that, my mouth setting in reply to the disturbance in the land.  
  
 _We have been followed_ , my mother spoke into my mind, rather than betraying our location with words spoken aloud.   
  
_How many?_ I asked, even as I looked for myself, counting the splashes in the stream beyond.  
  
 _Two dozen that I can espy from here_ , Galadriel answered, her voice terse. _There are_ _W_ _arg riders at the head of every six-count of Orcs on foot._ _I do not know how many still follow._  
  
I fought the urge to grimace at the numbers as they were given. We had been fortunate earlier, and now . . . I pressed my palms flat against the tree before I rose to my feet again, asking to share of its strength for the fight to come.  
  
We stayed quiet and still as Orcs filled the forest below. They chattered in the Black Tongue, while Wargs snarled at each other as they tried to beat their pack-mates in picking up our trail. The rain was light, it was not nearly enough to wash the whole of our scent away – especially with the breeding that had gone into the animals below, born as they were for this specific purpose. When one Warg threw back his head and howled – or hiding place discovered - my skin crawled in answer to the sound. I nocked an arrow in readiness, my mouth setting in a grim line as I picked out the shapes coming closer to our tree.  
  
I let my first arrow fly – a warning to any who would approach the tree.  
  
There was a pained yelp, and a scuffling in reply. And yet, any satisfaction that I felt was quickly cut through by the laughter I heard below. _Laughter_ , coming from the mouth of a large Orc, sitting astride a truly massive Warg. His armor was more ornate than the Orcs on foot, and the piercings and markings upon his face must have told of some rank of commander that I was ignorant to translate.  
  
He held up a hand, holding back his men. “You will run out of arrows before we do, She-elf,” his voice was deep and raspy, and his Sindarin was accented to the point where it was hard to understand him – but understand him we still could.  
  
My mother stood from the cover of the branches. There was a wispy light of gold clinging to her, turning her into a beacon in the darkness. “Then why do you not order your troops forward?” Galadriel challenged, her voice ringing on the night air – all but thrumming with power. “Could it be that you know fear . . . Gorgash . . . son of Boldog?”  
  
She tilted her head, and the Orc-captain – Gorgash, held a hand to his own head, his brow furrowing with pain in reply. “ _Witch_ ,” he hissed, his voice a snarl from his mouth. “You will regret that.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Galadriel said archly. “And yet, where is the Boldog? He would consider such a paltry task to be beneath him, and yet, he would leave your success not to chance. Have him step forward, and let me see where he has toiled for so long within such an unworthy _hröa_.”  
  
“You are not worthy of looking on the Boldog,” an Orc next to Gorgash said through his teeth. “We will instead show him _your_ head -”  
  
Galadriel held up a hand, and the Orc speaking clawed at his throat as his voice fled him. He made a wet, gurgling sound, and stumbled forth with his inability to catch his breath.  
  
“Silence before your elders,” Galadriel chastised, not even glancing at the Orc as he struggled. Instead she held Gorgash's eye. “It is craven on the Boldog's part to send his son to greet me. Better would it be for you and yours to leave this place, _snaga_ , for the only shadows in this place are natural, and they will suffer your desecration not.”  
  
I was not sure what she was seeking to accomplish by stalling – as I assumed she was – or by antagonizing him further, but as soon as Gorgash urged his mount forward with an inarticulate cry of anger, a sharp whistling sound filled the night air around us. The sounds whooshed by, nearly the same in cadence as the rain falling upon the leaves, until -  
  
One Orc fell to an arrow in the night . . . then another and another and _another_ fell, until Gorgash's forces rapidly stepped back in confused retreat, Each Orc tried to find cover underneath the trees, but they gained but little from the deluge of arrows, seemingly coming down from all sides.  
  
 _“The witch! The witch!”_ Many of the Orcs called in frustrated rage, and yet, I looked to Galadriel to see that she had done nothing. Her eyes were filled with a dark satisfaction, and I understood then that Amdír's march-wardens were closer than we had first thought.  
  
As soon as understanding fill me, there was a Silvan warcry on the air as one warrior leapt from the trees, and then another and another, each rushing forward to greet Gorgash's men with the sword. Not hesitating, I nocked my arrow as well, firing as rapidly as I could to help the wardens while we still had the power of surprise on our side. I prayed to aim true, and I did, my arrows finding their targets time and time again as the black company fell underneath the might of Lórinand's guardians.  
  
The Orcs were pushed backwards towards the river, and I left my high perch in the tree so that I could better help - my small bow not having the range to fire from such a distance. Galadriel followed me, a golden light still clinging to her skin. Even though she did not draw a sword, her eyes were closed, and I knew her touch upon the battle for the way each elven arrow seemed to strike true; for the way the Orcs seemed to turn, one on the other, recoiling in confusion and chaos as if responding to a voice in their heads . . .  
  
In theory, I knew of my mother's powers over the minds of others, but to see it now on such display before me . . . a part of me knew an awe that I would never be completely rid of in her presence. And so, where she spread her aura across the battle, I stood by her side and picked off each Orc who thought to turn our way, aiming again and again until I had not an arrow left, and I instead drew my sword -  
  
\- and yet, by then, the battle was over.  
  
My heartbeat was still thundering, and my hands were slick with rain over the hilt of my weapon. Yet, there was no one else to face as those few left alive retreated back beyond the river. The Elf leading the march-wardens – cloaked in grey, with his hood hiding all but for the blue of his eyes - waved a hand, and a half dozen of his men gave pursuit, rushing forward to chase those remaining to the edge of the forest and then just beyond.  
  
“To long has it been since Lórinand has known your touch, good lady,” the hooded Elf said, stepping forward. He reached out to touch his brow to the back of Galadriel's proffered hand in a gesture of respect. “And yet, I regret to welcome you to our realm with bodies so lining the forest floor.”  
  
“To the contrary, it is we who regret making our entrance as such,” Galadriel returned, her voice warm with sincerity. “We are thankful for the aid you and your wardens provided.”  
  
“We heard someone speaking with the trees,” the Elf replied, his voice wry. At his side, a second of his men came, and while I could not see his eyes from beneath his hood, I knew that he looked at me. I could feel my skin prickle with awareness at his attention. “The trees warned us of foul creatures amongst their eaves, and we were quick to answer their call.”  
  
Galadriel's glance flickered to me, and I was not the only one who felt the warmth of her pride then. “My daughter, Celebrían Celeborniel,” she introduced when the first Elf too looked to me, understanding whom the trees had spoken to. “Before you is Amroth, son of Amdír, prince of Lórinand.”  
  
Amroth threw back his hood, revealing a handsome face, even amongst elvish standards. His jaw was square and his cheekbones were high, while his nose and mouth were the graceful and deceivingly delicate features of the Sindarin. His hair was turned a dark shade of gold from the rain, while the blue in his eyes glittered even without the light to see by. His smile was the most catching aspect of his appeal, as warm as his bow was sincere in reply to my mother's introductions.  
  
“It is my pleasure to meet you,” Amroth said, before glancing above. “And yet, the storms have only just begun, and the forests are not yet clear of their taint. The warden's telain are close by; if it is acceptable to you, we can rest there for tonight, and then carry on to Caras Galadhon in the morn.”  
  
As soon as the words left Amroth's mouth, the rain seemed to double in intensity, while thunder rumbled through the trees, shaking the high boughs overhead. The land sighed in reply, content as the storms refreshed the earth below, and I knew that the rain would be long in duration.  
  
“I do believe,” Galadriel's voice was wry as we turned to walk deeper into the forest, “That you already bear your father's wisdom, young Amroth.”  
  
We continued on, and the trees seemed to close in around us.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
We walked deeper and deeper into the forest. Here, the trees turned older and larger as we passed underneath their boughs, until they were at last large enough to hold the Silvan Elves' ingenious form of dwelling in raised platforms - _telain_ \- high above the forest floor.  
  
The march-warden's posts were more rustic compared to the city of Caras Galadhon in the heart of the forest, and we used rope ladders to ascend into the talan, one after the other. We were up very high, I thought when I at last lifted myself onto the platform. Very high indeed. Though the slanted roof overhead kept the worst of the rain away, the walls were still open to the elements, and only a thin railing divided the talan from the open air around the tree. It would, I thought only to myself, be rather harrowing to sleep at the edge of such a formation - for the talan was simply that, an open, elevated space and nothing more, build to house the turning of the wardens and little else.  
  
Even so, there were lanterns lit, and they burned warm and cheerfully against the shadows of night. The two wardens awaiting our arrival already had dry cloaks for everyone, and I smelled a pot of hunter's stew on the far side of the talan. I felt my stomach rumble, not realizing just how enticing the idea of a hot meal and a warm place to sleep was until it was thrust upon us.  
  
As we traded in our wet cloaks for those dry, I watched the Elf who had been by Amroth's side during our journey to the post. He'd looked behind to glance at me more than once while we walked, and even now his eyes sought me when he thought that I was not looking. When he put down his hood and removed his sodden grey cloak I was met with another handsome face. I could not tell if he was Sindarin or Silvan, for his hair was a pale shade of gold, near to the silver of my father's people - and yet, his clear blue eyes were touched with the green of the forest-folk. He had a dark brow, narrowed and seriously set, with a strongly shaped jaw and a long, straight nose. His mouth was full and soft looking – or it would be, if it was not set into the grim line he currently wore.  
  
“Haldir, son of Hadrion,” I looked up when I realized that Amroth was making introductions. “Rúmil and Orophin are also sons of Hadrion, and rarely found apart.”  
  
I turned to those next to the Elf – Haldir – to see the two who were his brothers. I could easily espy the similarities between them, even though Rúmil's features were sharper, and Orophin's face had a beautiful delicacy that would have seemed effeminate if it were not for the telling strength of his body. Orophin looked curiously at Galadriel and me, and yet, Rúmil did not look up from the bow he still held in his hands. His fingers made absent patterns as they traced over the wood.  
  
I looked away when Haldir again glanced at me, not wanting to be thought for staring. Instead I paid attention to the rest of Amroth's introductions, inclining my head to each new face as they were named. Nórui was a swordsman whose spirit already felt like sunlight through the trees. He was shorter than the rest in the group, but his face seemed to be permanently shaped in a smile that brightened both the night and the rain. Next, Thandir was introduced - a solemn man with grave features who held a longbow in his hands. He stayed close to Amroth as he spoke, and I assumed that he was a guard of a more personal nature, as well as a member of the march-wardens. Langron and Laeorn were another pair of brothers who hung further back, and were clearly Silvan for the sharp look of their features, and the green in their eyes.  
  
“It has been too long since the Golden Lady of the Noldor last walked beneath these trees,” Amroth said when his introductions were complete. “If you recall, Adar was all but ready to hand his kingdom over the last time you dwelt here.”  
  
“As always, Amdír is adept at acknowledging the strengths of others by downplaying his own,” Galadriel said, inclining her head.  
  
“It is a shared trait, I see then?” Amroth returned, and Galadriel's eyes twinkled in reply.  
  
Amroth sobered a moment later, his easy expression settling into something more serious as he asked, “And yet, you had quite the following giving you chase. We have had curious Orc-scouts from the north poke at our borders once or twice over the years, but never have they entered in force as they did tonight.” There was a question waiting in his words.  
  
Galadriel's brow settled into a neutral expression, and Amroth inclined his head, understanding her answer before she gave it. “You wish to take counsel with my father,” he said. “I shall not make you tell your story twice. The storms shall pass with the dawn, and we will carry on from there.”  
  
My mother inclined her head, and thanked Amroth for his kindness once more, thus signaling the end of the formalities. Afterward, the Silvan brothers took to the high posts above the talan for their turn at the watch, while the rest either went to set up their bedrolls for the night or sit down next to Amroth as he started sorting through the weapons and maps they had plundered from the Orc-captain, talking in low voices about the battle.  
  
Galadriel sat next to Amroth to join in on the discussion, and yet, I had little wish to talk about this subject any more. Instead, I went to the edge of the talan and sat cross-legged by the railing, balancing my bow on my lap as I stared out into the night. I looked, but could see nothing moving in the shadows. I held my hands out from the shelter of the roof, and watched the rain as it struck my palms and rolled over the edge of my thumb before falling to the forest floor, far below.  
  
A moment later, a shadow came over me, and I was not surprised when I looked up to see Haldir standing next to me.  
  
“Is your contemplation a private one?” he asked. His Sindarin was accented, but sounded all the more pleasing for it. I waved a hand at the spot next to me.  
  
“I believe that we are the ones intruding here,” I answered with a rueful shake of my head. “Do not let me keep you from doing what you would please.”  
  
Haldir took a seat beside me, sitting closer to the edge than I would dare. “Sometimes, it is rare when duty and pleasure coincide, but they did so tonight. We were happy to be of aid in a time of need.”  
  
I gave a small smile at his pleasantries before turning to look out at the rain again. Everything seemed to be moving in the shadows, I could not help but think, still restless within my skin from the events of the day. Though I thought to spy a foul creature in the dark a dozen times, I did not feel that nameless sensation of dread that had accompanied each of my encounters with Orcs so far. We were safe, and yet, I could not call myself to calmness.  
  
“You made a good showing for yourself,” Haldir said after a moment of silence. He gestured to the bow on my lap.  
  
“Somewhat,” I gave, not wanting to admit that today was the first time I had seen true battle. My mouth still recalled the sour taste of bile when I all but thought about it. “And yet, I had a great teacher.” Speaking of my father, even in such a casual passing, caused a warmth to fill my heart, chasing away my feelings of disquiet.  
  
Haldir understood my reference without my having to explain – for Celeborn's name was well known throughout the Sindarin ranks as a Prince of old. “My father's father was of Menegroth,” he said. “It is good to see another keeping the legacy of the Doriathrim alive.”  
  
“Good indeed,” I said, pride for the heritage of my name filling my voice.  
  
“Then, is that your father's make?” he asked, gesturing to my bow again.  
  
“The design is,” I answered. I handed him my bow freely, eager to have the opinion of another archer. “My father instructed me, and yet, the crafting was my own. Doing so was the Noldo in me coming to the fore, I was told.” I flushed as I said my words - for, perhaps it would have been better for a master to craft my weapons, and yet, something inside of me had lightened at the idea of shaping my own wares, and I had not yet regretted doing so.  
  
Haldir carefully turned the bow over, and while I saw his appreciation for its shape and form, his brow soon furrowed in puzzlement. It took me but a moment to discern why as he carefully traced the runes Nothri and his friends had left – their inscriptions just as numerous as the designs of vines and flowers that I had originally worked into the wood.  
  
“These markings,” he muttered, not understanding their place. “They are fresh . . . and Dwarven, at that.”  
  
“I made friends when we passed through Moria,” I said, tilting my chin up as I said so. “They wished to give me a token to remember them by, and as this is one of my dearest possessions, I thought it fitting that they do so here.”  
  
I watched as his eyes shadowed, distaste passing over the clear orbs before he forced it away. I set my own jaw in reply.  
  
“Nothing good can come from the children of the mountains,” Haldir said a moment later, passing my bow back to me. “You were fortunate – for it has been my experience that they would rather stab you in the back before offering up anything of their own.”  
  
“We encountered the opposite in Moria,” I felt my own expression darken. “Fáfnir's people were gracious hosts and true companions. I learned much while dwelling amongst them, and I value the friendships I made. At least,” I added, my voice turning cool in a way that was all my mother when she was moved to anger, “they knew how to hold civil words in their mouth, even if they cared less than little for my kind.” I did not mention Lóni then, for he was one amongst many, and that was not the point I wanted to make.  
  
“I am sorry,” Haldir's voice softened. He had earned my dislike where he had not intended to, and he clearly wished to back away from my ire. “I was simply confused as to why a daughter of Doriath's prince would bear such a liking for the Naugrim. You have explained yourself now.”  
  
“ _Gonnhirrim_ ,” I hissed the name out in a low tone. While I knew it wise to let the subject go with his apology, the name sparked my ire all over again - Naugrim meaning _stunted_ where Gonnhirrim translated to _stone-masters_. “Gonnhirrim, it is respectful to call the Dwarves. And do not apologize when you do not mean what you say. It cheapens the meaning of your words as a whole.”  
  
His jaw set, and I knew that he would try again to mend the rift he had unwittingly caused. Yet, I would not let him. The events of the day seemingly heaped upon me then – from my being far from home, to the life of the Orc beneath me flickering . . . I even remembered Nothri's smile, and proud Lóni humbling himself as he tried to mend his own hate in asking to carve his name onto my bow. He with so few years tried to do what those with ageless memories could not, and I felt anger fill me for the thought.  
  
Instead of walking away from the situation until I could cool my temper, which would have been the wiser course, I found myself continuing, “We are just as bad as those who wronged us if we cannot let ourselves heal enough to cease heaping the blame for ancient wrongs on those who are far from those who actually committed the crime.”  
  
My every word turned louder and more impassioned as I spoke – _Finwë's temper_ , Celeborn would often accuse my mother of having whenever her ire was sparked, while she would return that he bore _Elwë's_ in kind, and here I now was, a match for both.  
  
“Ill it is indeed,” I continued, “if we use our endless years to carry such a hatred and still call ourselves fair folk. If you cannot let yourself rise above such an ancient rage after _so much time_ has passed, then how can you call yourself any better than the Orcs you slew this eve? In the end, you are just as bad as them.”  
  
My voice was loud by the end of my saying so . . . very loud. With a start, I realized that the conversations in the talan had turned quiet as a result of my outburst, and everyone had overheard. I felt the skin of my face color when I saw the tight way Haldir was looking at me . . . I did not even want to look my mother's way, for I could already feel the cool shape of her disapproval. I did not want to turn and see such a thing reflected in her eyes.  
  
“My apologies, my lady,” Haldir rose, and inclined his head to me. “I shall choose my words more carefully next time so as to not offend you.”  
  
This was not the first time my quick tongue had gotten me in trouble, but it was my worst error yet for the possibility of negative repercussions. We would need Lórinand's aid if the days were truly darkening as we foresaw. While I did not hold what I said as wrong, _how_ I said it had been most wrong . . . I had insulted Haldir, and by extension I also insulted our host. If Amroth too chose to take offense . . .  
  
As a descendant of Thingol's brother Elmo through his daughter Gilornel (Amdír being Gilornel's son, and my own father's cousin as a result), it was very possible that Amroth held the same prejudices that so many of the Sindar did. And now, if I had unwittingly opened up the scab on such an ancient wound . . .  
  
I summoned my courage to look over at the woodland prince, but Amroth's eyes were carefully neutral when he returned my gaze. He did not seem to hold any anger in his words as he said, “It has been a long day for all, and tempers are understandably thin as a result - let us not make this an equally long night. No doubt we will all find ourselves to be refreshed and in higher spirits upon the morn.”  
  
His answer was diplomatic, soothing over the tempers and hurt egos of all in the talan. Even so, his reaction was not damning – I had not offended him. I exhaled a shaky breath and tasted relief – that was, until I looked to my mother to see a cool disapproval lightening her eyes.  
  
 _There is much more to the tale here than first meets the eye_ , her mind touched my own. _You spoke in ignorance, and touched upon a wound greater than you know. Not_ – she interrupted me when I made to protest – _not of the deeds which you so declare to be in the past, but those fresh, and still raw before the mind._  
  
I did not understand, I thought. What -  
  
 _It is a tale for later_ , Galadriel continued. _You were not wrong – not in whole – but your handling of your counsel was very poor . . . very poor indeed._  
  
I fought the urge to hold my head in shame as I walked back to my pack. Instead, I tilted my chin up, and stared stonily ahead as I passed Amroth's men to take out my bedroll for the night. Amroth was right about tomorrow being a better day, and perhaps upon the morning I would find the will within me to apologize. I glanced over to Haldir to see where he was stubbornly avoiding my gaze.  
  
I set my jaw, my anger still not completely forgotten. Yes, I thought with a sigh, the dawn would hold better tempers for all – myself included. And so, I settled myself in for the night, turning my back on the others in the talan.  
  
I closed my eyes, and let the rain take me off to sleep.


	5. Entry V

After the hills leading down from the mountains into the valley, the land leveled out and turned flat in shape. The trees growing in Lórinand were memories of the Elder Days; their trunks thick and their boughs massive in shape. Their branches rose to mingle in a vast canopy over our heads, making one tree indistinguishable from the next as their peaks strained to seemingly touch the sky above. Even in the last days of fall the leaves clung to their places, the trees healthy to the point that they did not shed their foliage until the first storms of winter forced their crowns away.  
  
True to Amroth's prediction, the last peal of thunder departed with the dawn. While we did not have to worry for the rainfall, the storms had taken the last warmth of the season away with them, leaving the air now crisp with cold. Our breath frosted on the dry air, and a thin layer of ice clung to the trees, only melting as the thin sunlight pierced the canopy with the noon hour.  
  
I did not much speak during our journey through the forest. If Haldir sought to catch my gaze I did not notice, for I did not try to catch his own. I only became aware of his eyes on me when we came to cross the Celebrant, which was now a broad river of white water, its current flowing deep and cold in a furious rush.  
  
Here the Galadhrim kept no bridges for defending the inner Naith of Lórinand. We instead waited as Haldir gave a call to an Elf in grey on the other shore, upon which a rope was cast over to our side of the river. Back and forth the rope was thrown and then tied off to form a primitive bridge of sorts, with one rope at hand-level and another pulled taut to use as a foothold. A third rope was stretched for added security at the waistline, in order to help prevent against any _accidents_ in crossing the river.  
  
While such a bridge was not anything I had ever used before, it was no worse than some of the more foolish things Sítheril and I tried in our youth. When Haldir caught my eye in a wordless challenge, as if daring me, I climbed up to cross the rope bridge without blinking, my mouth tightly set and my feet sure as I made my way over the pale eddies swirling below me.  
  
Nórui, the swordsman, did not try to hide his amusement at our wordless battle. Instead, he whistled merrily in deference to the tension on the air as he crossed the bridge by my side - valiantly offering to be my rescuer if I missed a step and fell into the river below. His words had me smiling, even when I would had rather not. And yet, curiously, Haldir's jaw only seemed to set all the more so at his words.  
  
We made it to the other side of the Celebrant without incident, and then it was only an hour's walk to Caras Galadhon from there. We approached the city through a bridge in the south, thin and elegantly crafted over the fosse surrounding the heart of Lórinand. The Deep Fosse was a thin, deep ravine that was filled with still standing water from the Celebrant, creating a moat of sorts as an added defense around the city. The city itself was not very large, only half the size of Ost-in-edhil with its shape on the ground, but upwards . . .  
  
Upwards was another story altogether.  
  
Here the great trees were threaded through with great fortifications of _telain_ – massive structures that formed a venerable maze of silver dwellings in the golden boughs, creating a city for the people above the ground. It made sense, I thought – for the land here was flat, leaving no room for the great underground kingdoms that the Sindar of old kept. The Silvan people would not harvest the forests to make room for their dwellings, and neither would they lift stones upon stones when the trees themselves created such a bounty of shelter from the world around the forest. It was quite ingenious, I thought as I looked up and up and _up_ , my eyes trying to take in everything all at once.  
  
Where I had at first thought the talain to be a Silvan invention, I soon learned that they were unique to Amroth himself – explaining his name of _high dweller_ , now that I thought about it – and the great city in the trees was only the product of the last two hundred years or so. When asked, Amroth simply shrugged and said that Shadow again touched the land, and from such great heights they could keep a more watchful eye on the world at large.  
  
Nórui smiled and whispered something about a maiden named _Nimrodel_ that I could not quite catch, but understanding settled in quickly enough. I recognized the name of the woman the river was named for - for, whether she realized it or not, she had spawned a great building in the forests, mingling together the natural land with the work of hands in a way both practical and beautiful to the eye.  
  
As we made our way up into the trees, I could not help but feel as if the forest _embraced_ me. The part of me that was my father's blood all but reached out in welcome to the high trees surrounding me. The forest sang a song of its own as the trees turned their boughs to the sun; speaking of the things their eaves had seen, and the far off lands their roots had touched. I could spend days in the trees just listening to them speak, and my fëa warmed with a fullness of spirit that I had not felt since leaving Ost-in-edhil. The forest here was old and wise, and it welcomed its children to dwell within its branches. There was healing to be found in Lórinand; healing and peace and song, and though the weather around us was turning cold, the shape of my heart was warm . . . warm and bright indeed.  
  
After being appointed a dwelling of our own and taking a moment to change from our travel clothes, we were introduced to Amdír, King of Lórinand. He ruled alone, having lost his wife long before first crossing the mountains to come to Lórien. After the destruction of Doriath in the Second Kinslaying, the surviving Sindar followed young Elwing the White (Lúthien's granddaughter, and my parent's ward following the death of her own parents in the battle) to dwell in Sirion by the sea. Amroth was born in Sirion before that too was destroyed, though his mother had tragically not survived the battle. Less than a century later, at the end of the War of Wrath - with Elwing long gone and no one but for my father and Elmo's few other remaining descendants left to lead the remaining Sindar - Amdír started the great move of his people to Eriador and then across the Misty Mountains. He, along with Oropher's host, founded homes in the forests while attempting to seek out kin of old, and it was not until my parents settling in Eregion on the eastern side of the mountains that contact was made with them once more.  
  
Now that I looked, I could see where Amdír was also of Elmo's line, he having the same silver hair and sea-blue eyes that my father bore. The weight of his presence was old and wise, and he, like the forest he ruled, seem to exude an aura of peace and welcome. It was easy to see how the Silvan residents of old had accepted him as their lord with such a weight of spirit cloaking him, and it felt natural to bow before him and receive his greeting in turn.  
  
We stayed with Amdír for only an hour or so before he ended our meeting, saying that we would speak more when we were rested from our travels. Afterward, I tried to seek out Haldir in order to give my apologies – and receive them in turn, I was still not so ashamed by my own behavior to admit – but I found out that he left with his brothers shortly after arriving. The march-wardens would gather to see the threat from Gundabad completely done away with, and it was not yet known when they would return to Caras Galadhon – or even if they would. Haldir preferred the outer posts in the forest, and even the lands beyond Lórinand when he could, Amroth told me when I asked, and his absence left wound open between us before I could find a way to make amends.  
  
And so, the winter passed while we stayed in Lórinand. My mother was often in council with Amdír during that season, and I was left often to my own devices. For the most part, I was content with the solitude when it was my own, and when I had company it was often the presence of Amroth himself – who, despite his glimpse at my temper at our first meeting, seemed to be amused by me more often than not. He took my curiosity for his home in stride, and answered the myriad of questions I had about the forests easily enough – assuming the role of teacher and guide as it was thrust upon him with grace. He was much as a brother to me in those early days, and he filled my first winter in the Golden Wood with both smiles and warmth.  
  
There came a day when the snow clinging to the branches started to melt and the birds hesitantly sang to welcome the first days of spring, when we climbed to one of the higher talans in the wood. This talan was in the north of the forest, and more of a watch-post for the march-wardens rather than anything else - built as it was high into the tree tops in order to offer a sweeping view of the ice encrusted forest below. We were up high enough to be able to see the winding Anduin river at the eastern edge of the forest, running from its birthplace in the Grey Mountains all the way to the south of Belfalas and the Great Sea itself. I looked and saw an unusual thing directly across the river  . . . a hill, completely devoid of trees or greenery, surrounded by the forest on all sides.  
  
I could not completely see due to the distance, and yet, I thought that I could make out dwellings atop the hill – figures, even.  
  
“ _There_ ,” I said to Amroth, gesturing across the river. My breath frosted on the air as I spoke. “What is that I see?”  
  
Amroth looked where I pointed, and understanding lit his eyes. “Amon Lanc,” he answered. “That is the seat of Oropher's settlement in the Greenwood.”  
  
I raised a brow in surprise, not expecting his answer. Where Amdír was Elmo's grandson through his only daughter, Oropher was the eldest of Elmo's three children. His was an old and ancient name – older than my own parents, even, and I had long grown on his stories.  
  
“Why did they not stay here in Lórinand?” I asked, perplexed. “Caras Galadhon seems to be a more defensible position than that hill.” It was too open, dwelling on such a scar in the forest. Though the hill provided a vantage point to watch the river vale and the forests on both sides of the water, I still had an uneasy feeling creeping up and down my spine as I looked on Amon Lanc. Such whisper of disquiet was a sixth sense I was quickly learning to trust.  
  
Amroth was silent for a moment. I watched, seeing where he thought over how to best shape his answer. “It has only been since the dawn of the Second Age that Moria has truly grown in might as a kingdom,” he started in explanation. “We have traded with the King Under the Mountain, and have benefited from helping the Dwarves protect their trade roads leading down into the Anduin vales. It has always been a symbiotic relationship between all in this part of the land - the sons of Men receive their wares from the Dwarves, as do we, while the Dwarves benefit from the food and supplies we give to them in return. While the majority of those living in Lórinand are Silvan, were those here who migrated from Doriath and did not care to be in contact with Aulë's children – especially to such an advantageous degree on Moria's part.”  
  
Ah.  
  
I set my mouth, seeing where Amroth's words were leading.  
  
“Yet,” Amroth's voice turned, loosing much of its inflection, “while many of the Sindar could hold their tongues with dealing with the Dwarves, it was not until we came into contact with the Noldor in Eregion . . . and welcomed Lady Galadriel's input for the bettering of our realm, that Oropher took the majority of his folk and crossed the river.”  
  
I then understood why Amroth spoke so carefully. Not only was my mother _Golodh_ – but she was the Noldor's warrior princess. She was the granddaughter of Finwë himself; the daughter of the Noldor King in the West, and a sister and cousin and aunt to each of the Kings in Exile as they lived and died. It was not any woman of the Noldor my father wed, and many of his people had long been ill at ease for his choice. It did not matter that my mother renounced the wars of her kin, and found a peace in the forests of Middle-earth as if she were one of the wood-elves herself; nor did it matter of the Teleri blood she bore through her mother and grandfather - Galadriel bore a love and understanding for the trees that even few amongst the Sindar even reached, and there were times when I found it hard to remember her Noldor blood – her Noldor curse – until I was reminded of it through the sharpness of her mind, the ease of which she took to pride and craft and steel.  
  
Before the arrival of the Noldor in Ennor, my father had been close with his great-uncle. Yet, Oropher had been one of those most vocal in his advocating against working alongside the Noldor upon their arrival from Valinor. The Noldor brought with them the rise of the Sun and the Moon, and chased away the light of the stars the Sindar so adored – and such a light was not raised to assure those living in Middle-earth that their fight against Morgoth was not forgotten, but rather, it was lifted to light _their_ way, thus solidifying the unease and lack of reverence many of the Elves of Ennor bore for the Valar in the West. In those days, Oropher foresaw many pains coming from the hands of the Exiles - both through the Oath lashing the backs of the Kinslayers, and through their burning desire to make war with the Dark Lord in the north. All would suffer for the violence of the Elves from the West, Oropher had proclaimed, plagued as he was by visions where the forests burned from root to bough, never to be replanted again. When Doriath fell, not only was his insight proved to be correct, but he also lost his wife of many centuries to the scourge of Noldor blades – and his age old disquiet had then flared into an outright resentment and hatred.  
  
Oropher too had traveled as a refugee to Sirion, but he'd bristled underneath Elwing's leadership – both for her giving an ear to my mother's advice, and her taking of a Noldorin prince as her husband. (Never minding that Eärendil would rather be counted amongst the ilk of Men over any other race of people.) After Sirion was destroyed, Oropher and his followers remained on the Isle of Balar only to fight in the War of Wrath, but then no longer. Afterward, he cared but little to live beneath the law of Gil-galad – and he cared even less to follow my father and the Sindar underneath his leadership to Eregion while my mother still led at Celeborn's side - and so, he'd joined his host to Amdír's in their plans to cross the Misty Mountains for the lands beyond.  
  
As the closest living relative to Thingol of old – besides Elwing's son Elrond, who was a descendant of Thingol's daughter, rather than a nephew to the crown – Oropher was known to title himself as the Elven-king in the forests. There were those of the Sindar who preferred Amdír's more subdued leadership and wisdom, and thus stayed in Lórinand underneath his rule. And yet, those of like heart with Oropher were quick to follow him and seek a place of their own deeper in the forests.  
  
The Silvan folk to the east were more rustic than even their kindred in Lórinand. The Silvan of the Greenwood were descendants of the first Elves to turn their backs on the Great Journey in the earliest of days, and they held a deep, soulful bond with both the forests and starlit nights as a result. While primitive, in a sense, they held a natural lore of their own, understanding the earth itself like no other people living in Ennor. In the Silvan, Oropher found what he was seeking – a land out of time, and a simple people who knew only the trees over their heads and the peace that only the deepest forests could provide.  
  
As I put the various stories together in my head to form a complete tale, Amroth sighed at my side. I looked at him in reply, at last drawn from my thoughts.  
  
“Do not mishear me: Oropher is an able leader. Only, there are times when he lets personal tragedies – and his infamous stubbornness, at that - color his judgment,” Amroth ammended. “The Silvan have greatly benefited from his counsel, and the Greenwood grows all the more wondrous underneath his hand. And yet, a land founded in such wounds can only lead to more such pains, I cannot help but fear. I wish for Oropher to find peace before the day turns dark once more – for the Shadow has a way of picking open such sores, and we will need not of such inner discord when the time comes.”  
  
I nodded, silently agreeing with him. This was one of the reasons that Haldir's prejudices had so baffled me at the first. I was born of two great peoples, and was raised in a place where Dwarves were as expected in the city square as Elves were. It was hard to hold such prejudices when all I had ever known was the opposite . . . and yet, I then wondered . . . if had I had been raised otherwise, with such views indoctrinated in me from my earliest days . . . Perhaps, I reflected then, I had been too harsh in my judgments in that way alone.  
  
I looked down, and found that the forests did not seem quite so fair to me. Ever was the world painted in shades of grey, with little of the purely right and wrong to be found. Always, the line between the two seemed to grow all the more muddled still.  
  
“Oropher has a son, does he not?” I asked next, not liking the shape of my thoughts. “Thranduil was close to my father in Doriath, before the Noldor arrived, but I do not think they have spoken since Ost-in-edhil was founded.”  
  
“Thranduil remains in Lindon to this day, acting as a leader for the Sindar who still live in Harlindon. He rules in fiefdom to King Gil-galad, and prepares for the eventuality that he may someday need to move east to reign over his father's realm,” Amroth answered her. “Someday, if Oropher's rulership passes to him, I do hope the best for his people. Thranduil is more like his mother than his father – or so my own father says - and he is more cool in comparison to Oropher's flame of a temper. If such a coolness is better mixed with such prejudices . . . well, only time will tell.”  
  
We were silent for a long moment, each lost to our own thoughts. Finally, I took one last look at Amon Lanc, and we started the long climb down to the forest floor.  
  
“Yet, if you take nothing else from my gossip, you can at least see that everyone in this land has a tale of woe to tell,” Amroth said as he leapt down from the last branch. “After so many years of living, it is nigh impossible not to develop a tragedy or two.”  
  
“Do you have a tale of woe to tell?” I asked, ready for the answering twinkle in his eyes to chase away our more serious words of earlier.  
  
“I bear no tragedy,” when Amroth smiled, it was all teeth. “I am simply a hopeless romantic, worse than even Daeron of old.”  
  
This _Nimrodel_ again. There was a story waiting to be told of the river maiden and Lórinand's prince, yet it was not yet mine to know.  
  
“Fine,” I arched a brow in reply to his silence. “Keep your secrets; I shall not pry for more.”  
  
“I only aim to keep your interest,” Amroth teased as we started back to Caras Galadhon. “If the Valar are kind, we have many years left in our knowing each other, and I wish to keep my air of mystery for as long as I may.”  
  
“Your secrets are yours,” I said again. While my voice was teasing, Amroth had turned his gaze back to the forest path, his eyes lost to some distant thought. As much as he tried to brush off my questions with humor, his heart was heavy where this woman was concerned, and I had unconsciously picked at a wound.  
  
We walked in silence the rest of the way, and I did not move to break it. My mind was still swimming with my thoughts, and I took that time to thread them together and reveal a more complete picture.  
  
Yes . . . Amroth had given me much to think on, indeed.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
Spring came to Lórinand with joy and song. When we first arrived, the forest had only just shut its eyes to the winter; now she yawned and blinked in welcome to the sunlight warming her boughs. I had first thought the song of Lórinand enchanting, but now her melody seemed to constantly fill the air around me, even when I did not consciously seek to hear it. It was a song that hovered between conversations and filled up silent moments until there was not a soul in Caras Galadhon who could not keep from smiling at the new life blossoming around us.  
  
The trees budded, their new leaves finally forcing away the dead foliage that had refused to fall with the worst of the winter storms. Flowers bloomed in thick carpets of yellow and white on the forest floor, while the sunlight fell through the canopy of entwined bough in rivulets of warm, golden light, catching on the newly growing foliage to turn the whole forest alight.  
  
The larks sang in the high branches, while warblers and finches circled to find their nestmates for the season. The forest gave her call, and those who slept the winter through now ventured forth to greet the year anew. The week before, when traveling with Amroth and Thandir to where the waters of the Celebrant flowed into the Anduin, we saw a massive brown bear and her two cubs, all drawn to the bountiful river by the newly spawning fish. The waters were teaming with schools flocking on the currents, thriving with the nutrients provided from the snow melting further up in the mountains. The she-bear immediately saw us in the cover of the trees, and put herself between us and her cubs. She made no threatening movements, but her warning was clear as she largely ignored us in favor of teaching her little ones how to fish in the rushing white waters.  
  
We watched her for the better part of the day, sitting on the sun warmed rocks and catching our own fish downstream from the small family. By the end of the day, the more daring of the two cubs found the courage to approach us. His brother gave a squeal – which I suppose he intended as a growl – in warning, but the older cub ignored him and was awarded with a fish from our basket from his efforts. The smaller of the two brothers was quick to follow after that.  
  
Their fur was thick and soft when they finally let us close enough to touch, a beautiful shade of gold underneath the darker brown tips of their waterproof coats. Already there was an old and ancient wisdom in the liquid brown of their eyes – a burning weight of spirit that was even more so in the eyes of their mother, who still kept her distance from us. She had accepted the peaceful intentions in our hearts, but she was nonetheless of the wild and had no use for our attentions as such wild things did.  
  
Ost-in-edhil had been too open a land for such creatures, positioned as it was in the foothills of the Misty Mountains, far above the teaming forests that covered Eriador as a whole. Such a meeting was a blessing; one that I smiled in memory for during the our return trek to Caras Galadhon.  
  
Now was the time for the Mettarë and Yestarë festivals – the last and first day of the year, according to our calendars, which coincided with the last day of winter and first day of spring. Some of the smaller elven settlements had taken to celebrate Mettarë on the winter solstice – especially to coordinate with the festivals of the nearly settlements of Men - while Yestarë still fell on the spring equinox to mark the start of our year. Yet, Lórinand was old and set in its ways, and Mettarë was still observed alongside Yestarë.  
  
Mettarë was a solemn day of reflection and remembrance. We sang to the land and thanked it for sustaining us during the previous year, and with our last song the winter was officially called to a close. It was tradition to give gifts on Mettarë, but those gifts were not opened until the following day – when the year began anew and we welcomed the renewed growth of the land with songs of thanksgiving and celebrations of good cheer.  
  
There were many in Lórinand who did not live in the confines of Caras Galadhon, and bands of Silvan wandered the lands between the Misty Mountains and the Anduin river, belonging to no one person or place. As such, many made their way to Lórinand's capitol to celebrate the holiday with friends and family they would not see the rest of the year through, and the forest fairly teamed with new faces. This was also a time for clan heads to meet and talk, while wares were sold and traded in the markets that were set up just for this occasion. Judicial matters were seen to, and marriages that had been betrothed the year before were now officially bound and celebrated underneath the newly blooming trees. Three marriages were celebrated this year, more so than any year besides the first Yestarë the Sindar spent in Lórinand, or so Amroth told me. This year, a child was even welcomed into our fold – a feat, when most years there was not one child to present to our race of endless years. A couple could spend thousands of years together, but only one child was common and anything more than two was rare – for elvish parents literally gave up part of their souls in order to create the soul of a child, and they rarely did so when there was a sign of war hanging above their heads. Seeing the smiling little boy was a sign of a fruitful year to come – and a good omen for the feeling of Shadow that was growing all the more tangible with each passing season. The forest all but bristled with life and movement as a result, and none were immune to the good cheer upon the air.  
  
My mother and Amdír had long been planning for this meet, and I knew that they spoke of the growing threat of Annatar with the family heads, thus preparing for the possibility of violence in the years to come; a threat which hung over all of our shoulders like a storm in the sky.  
  
Amroth was beside himself with excitement for the New Year festivals, for this was one of the few days when his reclusive Nimrodel could be found mingling with the others of her kind. He did his hair in ornate braids, over which he set a circlet of beaten silver. The metal was blemished with imperfections, resembling natural stone more so than any other treasure, but it suited him. He was dressed in the full gilt and glamor of his station, handsome in his dark grey and forest green – so much so that Nórui paused when greeting him that morning, pretending to clean an imagined smudge from his cheek before he declared him presentable. Even grave Thandir was smiling at the side of his Prince, glad for his friend and his happiness.  
  
Yet, as Mettarë passed and we approached the later hours of Yestarë, I could not espy any woman who caught Amroth's eye. Aware that I could be potentially be causing a harm, I finally asked outright: “Which one is your Nimrodel?”  
  
Amroth did not blink. “She did not come this year,” he finally admitted – both to himself and to me. His voice was toneless, and his expressive eyes were weighed down with his disappointment. My heart ached for him in reply. “I am afraid that I am not the best company for such a day as this,” he said, waving me on. “I do not wish to bring your spirits down.”  
  
“Aiding a friend can never exhaust one's spirits,” I replied, not wanting to leave him alone on a day that should have been happiness and good cheer.  
  
“And yet, I would prefer the solitude,” Amroth said, flashing me a lopsided grin to tell me that his wish to be alone was from nothing I had done. “Please, I release you from your obligations as a friend.”  
  
I paused, still hesitant, but Nórui looped his arm through mine and turned me away. He had known Amroth since childhood – along with Thandir, Amroth's guard, who stayed in his shadow even when we turned away. “Leave him,” Nórui said gently, his normally jovial voice grim. “She has plagued him for many years now, and will continue to do so for many years to come, I foresee.”  
  
There was sadness in his voice on Amroth's behalf – and anger to the lock of his jaw and the tilt of his chin, I saw. He did not think too highly of this woman, I understood, and I could not help but share his ire without knowing her side of their tale.  
  
“Sometimes, the fey ways of our souls are a curse more than a blessing,” Nórui said as we approached the main throng of people once more. “Be sure that your heart settles on a true match in the years to come, for I do not think that I would be able to stand by as I do now for Amroth.” His voice picked up a note of teasing, breaking through the heavy fog of emotion that had settled upon us.  
  
“I shall endeavor to do so for you,” I said in reply, amused. For a people of endless days, we often found our match of spirits within moments – our fëar knowing and recognizing our matches even without our conscious minds deciding upon a mate. Thingol loved Melian at first sight, it was said, as had Beren first been drawn to Lúthien. Human though he was, Tuor had noticed none but Idril with the splendor of Gondolin all around him, and even as a child, Eärendil had seen Elwing for the first and _known_. Our history was riddled with such matches, both for good and for ill. Long ago, when I first asked my mother, she'd hesitated before saying that she learned to love my father. However, my father did not even blink before admitting that he had seen Galadriel and loved her from first sight. She had been as the second dawn of the sun to him, and he'd never looked back to the dark of night.  
  
I hated that Amroth's soul bound him to someone who could not yet return his affections – for not always were our ways things of legend and the romance of a bard's tale. Sometimes, they were tragic.  
  
But Amroth was still young, and he had many years left to him. I could only hope and pray that this Nimrodel realized the gift of what she had before it was too late.  
  
Nórui drew me back to where the festivities were still going strong, and I followed him. There was music coming from a ring of harpists and flute players, and many couples were already dancing. The dance was wild and moved quickly, leaving me slow to make out its pattern – these dances being ancient, handed down from generation to generation since the Awakening itself. Before coming to dwell in Lórinand I had known the careful and exacting steps of the Noldorin dances, taught to us by Vána herself. I too knew a good majority of the graceful and flowing Sindarin forms, and yet, there was something breathless and raw about the Silvan and their dancing – something that moved more with the song of the forest rather than the melody given by harp and flute and drum.  
  
A ripple of cheer went through the crowd as we approached, and I soon realized why. The march-wardens from the outer posts had come home for the Yestarë celebrations, and there were many who now greeted family and friends – some they had not seen since the last new year, even.  
  
I looked through the figures cloaked in grey, searching for a familiar face. I had still not said my apologies to Haldir, and I wanted to take this unexpected opportunity to set a grievance to right.  
  
I glanced from face to face, but could not find the one I sought. I felt my spirits fall before I even recognized their rising, remembering Amroth saying that Haldir preferred the outer eaves of the forest, and even the lands beyond Lórinand when he could. He may not have been moved to return home, even for the celebrations surrounding Yestarë. I bit my lip, looking one last time for -  
  
“Do I dare presume that the lady searches for me?”  
  
A voice spoke at my back, and I spun to meet Haldir's bemused eyes and stern features. He was still dressed in his warden''s garb, nearly blending in with the forest shadow that fell to dapple his shoulders. A quiver rested on his back, and he wore his stone knives at his belt. He had sought me out before doing anything else, I realized, not quite sure what to make of that observation.  
  
“Perhaps I did,” I answered, arching a pale brow. I wanted to set things right between us, but I did not particularly want him to think me desperate to do so.  
  
“I am flattered,” Haldir said, and I looked, expecting to find sarcasm in his gaze. Instead, he looked almost . . . uncomfortable as he stood before me. He did not know what to do with his hands, first resting them on the strap of his quiver and then dropping them to tap restlessly at his sides. The tips of his ears were flushed a faint shade of pink, as if from embarrassment.  
  
My own ire softened almost instantly for seeing so. I took a step forward, ready to break the barrier between us. “I wanted -” I said at the same time as he said, “Let me -” and we both stopped as one, clearly flustered.  
  
“I fear that I did not make the best of first impressions the last time we spoke,” Haldir began. I inclined my head, sharing his sentiment entirely.  
  
“Sometimes my mouth runs away from me,” I admitted ruefully, “and I do not think on how to phrase my words before I speak. I was ungracious and needlessly cutting, and for that I apologize.” _And for that only_ , the thought brushed my mind before I could push it aside.  
  
“You spoke your mind,” Haldir shook his head. “And you were not wholly wrong. Indeed, I have thought on little else but for your words during the winter.” He looked down, fighting away a look of frustration before I could see it clearly writ upon his face. When he looked up again, he seemed more poised before my eyes, with determination lining the steel of his brow. “I offer you my apologies, and ask that you see them as the truth they were not before.”  
  
I inclined my head in answer, feeling as if a weight was lifted from my shoulders. “I accept your apology, and thank-you,” I said, my words lined with sincerity. “Perhaps,” I suggested wryly, “it would be best for us to simply start over.”  
  
“I agree,” Haldir said. With a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth, he held a hand out to me. “Let us begin again. I am Haldir, son of Hadrion, and I ask that the stars shine upon the hour of our meeting.”  
  
I accepted his hand. “Greetings, Haldir, son of Hadrion. I am Celebrían, daughter of Celeborn, and I pray that the stars ever shine to guide your way.”  
  
“That went much better the second time, if I may say,” Haldir nodded. He tapped his fingers on the leather strap of his quiver once again and his face settled, as if coming to some decision in his mind. “I know it is tradition to give gifts on Mettarë, but as our patrol was late upon arriving, I ask leave to give you this belatedly.” This he said formally, reaching behind his back to unbuckle his quiver of arrows. He then handed them to me; I raised a brow, not understanding his offering until I peered at the arrows within.  
  
I had never seen arrows fletched such as these. They were formed by a dark wood, long and straight, with wickedly sharp heads made from a black stone that I did not recognize. The feathers were strong and stiff beneath my fingers, cut to aim far and true – but it was the coloring of the feathers that caught my eye. They were brown, speckled with black and a pale shade of ash near the base, while the tips darkened to a deep color of jeweled green. I could think of no bird with feathers like these.  
  
“They are beautiful,” I praised, meaning my every word. “I have never seen anything like them before.”  
  
“They are yours,” Haldir said. “Now you have unusual arrows to go with your rather unusual bow.”  
  
_These are too much,_ I first thought to say, but I did not want to be rude in pushing his gift away. Instead, I placed the arrow back inside the quiver with an appreciative hand. “I thank you,” I said. “This is a great gift.” I understood how much time and effort must have went into their construction, and I meant what I said.  
  
“I am glad that you are pleased,” Haldir said, twin spots of color rising to highlight his cheeks.  
  
“Yet, I am afraid that I have nothing to give to you in return,” I acknowledged ruefully. I moved to sling the quiver over my shoulder, already eager to try them with my bow.  
  
Haldir gave a half bow in a show of graciousness. “If you wish, view these as an apology, not as a gift for the new year,” he offered. His eyes flicked to the ring of dancing couples, and something like steel flashed in his green touched gaze. He took a breath, as if fortifying himself. “However, if you would do me the honor of a dance, I would consider that gift enough in return.”  
  
“A dance for these arrows?” I returned. “It is not enough, but it shall have to do if that is your wish.” Something about the line of his shoulders seemed to relax, but only just.  
  
“Excellent,” Haldir agreed. He offered me his arm, and I accepted.  
  
This was a truce between us, I understood. I still did not hold my opinions as wrong, and yet, such points of view could not be changed over night, and I would not ruin a new friendship I could make by forcing my views on him. I could only hope that with enough time – and more well formed reasoning on my part, rather than words spoken in anger - his thoughts could shift on their own. Until then I would accept his cease-fire for what it was, and continue on from there.  
  
In the end, Haldir could have chosen better in a partner. The Silvan dances were quick and spinning, and I stumbled over my own two feet while trying to master the fast and wild paces. My clumsy steps further broke the ice between us, and Haldir proved to be a capable enough teacher. Soon enough I was not quite flowing with the others in the clearing, but I was no longer stumbling – and I would count that as a victory.  
  
The steps of the dance seemed to beat in time with the awakening of the forest. It was as if the trees heard our song and sang in tune - or rather, it was _we_ who mimicked the song of the trees to encourage them to life once more. There was a deep lore and respect for the land itself in the Silvan way, and I could all but _feel_ that pulsing in the clearing now. I hummed in the back of my throat, and the dance came more easily to me as I followed the pull in the air rather than the spin of the music. After doing so I was not an embarrassing partner for much longer.  
  
“You understand,” Haldir said simply when the music slowed, couples spinning arm and arm rather than fluttering too and from each other, only fingertips touching as they wheeled like butterflies in the wind.  
  
“I think I do,” I replied. “I can _feel_ it . . . yet I still feel as if I am grappling to understanding half of a conversation, hearing a whisper when there is something louder right beyond my ears.” It was difficult to put such feelings into words, and I floundered. “But it is beautiful, and I am enjoying the search.”  
  
“It will come in time,” Haldir said, his voice warm. “Many felt as such when we first came to these trees, and the aura you now feel was the reason why many decided against moving on. The forest sings; once hearing her song it is hard to stray far from her.”  
  
Curious, I tried to spy out his eyes, but I did not know him well enough to define the thoughts therein. Was he born in Lórinand, I wanted to ask, or did he too cross the mountains with the Sindar? Then, there was also the green in his eyes and his heavily accented Sindarin – was there the blood of the Silvan in his veins? I wondered, but did not quite know how to ask.  
  
“I can imagine trees no more content in their forest as they are here,” I said rather than asking. And it was true, even the great forests of Doriath – nay, even the wooded lands of Valinor – could fail to compare to the wonder here . . . at least, that was how it felt in moments like these; with the breath of the forest matching our own breath and the pulse between the trees pounding in time with our own hearts.  
  
“No more _content_ , perhaps,” Haldir allowed me, “ yet there are strange and wondrous things to be found in the woods to the south of our borders. There, even the -”  
  
His voice broke off abruptly, and he looked at me, considering. “And yet, I fear that I cannot put into words what dwells in the trees of Fangaorne.”  
  
_Fangaorne_ , I wondered at the ancient name, curious. Once was, the forests here stretched to carry on over the mountains and all the way across Eriador, stopping only at the sea itself. Yet, since the arrival of the Men from Númenor and their colonies in Middle-earth, the great sailors had been harvesting the forests for use in their ship-building – even going as far to fell the trees and send the lumber back to Númenor to fuel the ship-yards there. So far, treaties with Gil-galad kept the destruction of mankind to a minimum – arranging that they took no more than the forest would be able to replenish, but there were careless harvesters amongst the Men, and already worry existed for the safety of the forests in the centuries to come. The Elves did not have the numbers to enforce the safety of the forests, and someday . . .  
  
But that was still many years to come, I thought then, and the Men of Númenor were ruled by Kings of elven blood as descendants of Eärendil; heirs of Finwë and Elu Thingol both. My thoughts were naïve then, and I believed: they _had_ to understand. I could not comprehend how they could not hear the forest as it cried – even with their veins steeped in mortal blood. Even the Dwarves did not harvest so carelessly, and they were known for delving into the forests, determined to feed the fires of their forges to the point of obsession, even. Surely these sons of Men would stay their hand before true damage was done.  
  
I shook away my thoughts, seeing as consideration grew in Haldir's gaze. “My brothers and I are to journey to the southern marches to relieve the posts there. If you would care to join us, there is something there I think you would enjoy seeing.”  
  
My curiosity was struck. The music spun between us, and I nodded. “Yes,” I answered after a moment. “I would see what you have to show me.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
The march-wardens did not stay long in Lórinand. After a week or so they were ready to move to their spring posts, and I set out with them. I had not yet been to the southern expanses of the forests, and in those days before Sauron's devastating march across the land, there was no barren land between the woods of Lórien and the woods of Fangaorne. Instead the forests stretched from the river Ninglor, north of the Dimril Dale, all the way south to the lands that are now the northern plains of Rohan. At the time of my penning these words, so little of the forests of old remain; but the trees still _remember_ , and, in a way, are all the more glorious for their loss.  
  
Yet, in those days, I could not fathom a world without the forests as I then knew them. Our trip was long, but spent in good company amongst the wardens. Haldir was mostly silent as we walked, only speaking when he had something to say. Yet when he did speak I was able to glimpse a mind steeped in forest lore and rich with tales from the lands beyond Lórinand. He had been as far north as the Grey Mountains that marked the furthest border of the Greenwood, and as far south as where the Great River poured into Sundering Sea. He had restless feet, and there were times when he would leave for a year or more when not patrolling with Lórinand's guard. Before leaving, Amroth told me that he now kept to Lórien more often than not - for Haldir had risen quickly through the ranks, so quickly that he was now a likely candidate for the Captain of the Guard in the centuries to come. He would not leave as often as he once had for the sake of his duty.  
  
During our journey I was able to better acquaint myself with Haldir's brothers. Orophin was softly spoken, and it took much patience to draw him into a conversation. Even so, he wore a small, pleased smile when he finally answered my queries, and his humor was surprisingly wry when I coaxed him to utter more than a word or two. Curiously, Rúmil did not utter a word as the days passed. Not one. At first I thought that he was still offended by my cross words with his brother, but I soon noticed that he did not speak with anyone in the group. He stayed close to Orophin's side, and I thought that there was a time or two when they communicated between their minds, but I could not espy anything more than that.  
  
When we set up camp on the second night, Orophin caught my curious stare and touched my shoulder to turn my attention to him.  
  
“Rúmil does not speak,” he stated simply, sitting down next to me. “He was young when we crossed the mountains . . . too young, perhaps. Our mother . . . she fell during the journey, and while he was old enough that he did not fade to follow her, the scars still remain on his fëa.”  
  
I felt my heart twist at his words, for such was a tale heard too often amongst our kind. The bond between souls that bore children also made those very young dependent upon those bonds. For a parent and child to be parted before a child's soul could safely survive on its own . . . the results were always tragic.  
  
“She fell?” I asked, my mouth dry as I shaped my question.  
  
Orophin looked as if he would tell me, but Haldir sat down to my right, and at a look from his brother Orophin changed his mind. “She fell,” he simply repeated on a whisper, and would say no more.  
  
My curiosity was piqued, but I was prevented from pushing for more when another in our group pulled out a harp and started to sing a star-song in welcome to the night. The Silvan singer was wistful with memory for the time before the Sun and Moon, and all fell silent to listen to him. Haldir, I thought, looked a little too attentive, but I let him take his escape as he could - for I did not truly wish to pry where I was not wanted.  
  
Three days later, the forest thinned noticeably, before turning dense again, rolling over hills and deep, rocky ravines. The _feel_ of the forest changed around me. Where Lórinand felt gold and silver to my senses, this forest felt blue and purple - if such an aura could wholly be put into words, that was. The trees thickened again, but instead of the straight, tall trunks I had known in Lórien, these trees were unruly, twisting and twining in strange and exotic shapes as they grew one about the other. Vines and curtains of moss draped from the tall branches, and the ground was thick and spongy beneath our feet as we walked deeper and deeper still into the woods. Fog rose from the ground, billowing in phantasmal patterns against the silver-blue and purple-grey of the trees in the morning light. The song of the forest turned about me - different, but no less poignant than the one I'd come to know in Lórinand.  
  
“We are no longer in Lórien,” I observed, turning to Haldir.  
  
“Indeed not,” Haldir confirmed. “We have passed into the eaves of Fangaorne. Our posts are on Lórien's border, but there is a spring move in the forest that we observe out of respect for the Tree-host. We head there now.”  
  
I looked at him curiously, but he would say no more. When we came as far as the river Limlîht, we stopped and climbed into the tall trees to wait for something past my ability to see. I settled in, staring into the forest to find whatever it was that had the wardens so enthralled. Conversation, if it was made, was conducted in low whispers so as to not disturb the serenity of the forest. Each set of eyes searched the woods, flickering to and fro over every forest shadow. A tangible excitement clung to our group, and I restlessly tapped my fingers against my thigh in response.  
  
“We may wait here for minutes or days,” Haldir informed me. “The Caretakers never quite keep to the same schedule, or if they do, it is one in their own minds only.”  
  
I looked to the shadows with a renewed interest, an idea of just _what_ I was looking for brushing tantalizingly across my thoughts. To see _them_ would be a story come to life, and I could not yet wrap my mind around the idea.  
  
In the branch opposite of us, Orophin chattered softly at Rúmil, who, as ever, said nothing in reply. That did not keep Orophin from trying, however, and I felt a pang in my chest for the earnestness of his efforts – unfaltering for decades now.  
  
Haldir caught my gaze. “Your mother met with him after Yestarë,” he said, his voice as quiet as the forest. “She says that he will someday speak, but she has not of the healer's gift to heal the lines on his fëa, even though she can see them clearly. Her words gave us renewed hope.”  
  
I heard the subtle undertones of awe and thankfulness in Haldir's voice, and knew that my mother had won a faithful follower for the years to come by doing so. A slight smile touched my mouth, happy as I was for their hope, but still troubled for the reason behind its need.  
  
“You crossed the mountains, then?” I asked, seeing an opportunity to ask the questions that had been pressing against me. “With your accent, I could not ascertain if you were born in Lórinand or not.”  
  
My asking caused a full smile touch Haldir's mouth. “It is something that confuses many,” he answered after a moment, clearly amused. “Our mother was of the Nandor – Denethor's daughter, from Ossiriand that was. When the Green-elves moved from the river-lands to Doriath after Denethor's death, my mother met my father – Hadrion, who is the only son of Mablung - ”  
  
“ - the Captain of Thingol's guard,” I finished hollowly. I fought the urge to wince at the revelation. Mablung had served Thingol with all of the devotion that a sovereign could ever ask from his favoured warrior, and their friendship had been close – with only Beleg Strongbow, perhaps, holding a closer place in Mablung's heart. He had died outside of the treasury in Menegroth after Thingol fell, and his name lived in legend amongst my people still to this day.  
  
“Yes,” Haldir answered carefully. His eyes held mine for before turning to the forest again. “When Doriath was destroyed, my father, rather than moving to the Havens of Sirion, took to traveling with those remaining of my mother's kin in the river-lands. I was born in no named place, and lived a nomadic life with the Green-elves until the dawn of the Second Age. Hence, my rather strange way of speaking, or so I have been told.”  
  
The Nandor and the Silvan were but one race, separated only by the mountains. Little was left of the Nandor way of life, and what remained would have merged seamlessly with their kin of old. I fiddled with theties of one of my braids as he spoke, piecing the story together with what I'd already known and observed.  
  
“You were met by Amdír's host when he crossed, I take it?” I continued thoughtfully.   
  
“Amdír came across our band just after setting out from Lindon, and he remembered my father from Doriath. He spoke of rejoining our long lost folk over the mountains, and there were those amongst the Nandor who found the idea appealing. The more they spoke about it, the more they wished to seek out those they had been sundered from for centuries. My mother was hesitant, for while Orophin and I were old enough to endure such a journey, Rúmil had only then reached his first decade, and such a venture was not to be taken lightly for one so young.”  
  
_So young_ , I thought with a pang. It was no wonder that he still did not speak.  
  
Haldir's jaw clenched, but he then moved on. “But her people wished, and as Denethor's daughter it was to her to make it so. So, we crossed the mountains with Amdír's host, and settled in Lórinand.”  
  
That was not it . . . there was more to the story, I could feel it pressing in against me like a weight, as heavy as the fog in the air. “And your mother?” I asked as gently as I could.  
  
For a moment, I thought he would not tell me. He was silent, his eyes drawn to a sound in the woods. I too turned, but saw only a squirrel who had misjudged his leap, falling through the branches while his companion chattered at him from above. I blinked, and looked back to Haldir.  
  
“There was a storm in the mountains,” he finally said, his every word pushed from his mouth as if forced. “Common enough, and yet, tales tell of the mountain itself moving when the storms rage above. We'd already made our way down the path – Orophin too was still young, and my father helped him on the narrow ledge. Our mother was separated from us up above, for she moved slower with Rúmil. The side of the mountain fell, leaving them hanging on to that which was left . . .” he swallowed, his words catching in his throat.  
  
“We could not reach her, not from below, and there was no way for us to make the climb to help her from above. Yet . . . we were not the only ones to cross the pass that day.” He was silent for a moment more, his eyes studiously finding the trees.  
  
I felt my heart twist, a whisper of foreboding telling me where his words were heading. _Not in those wounds ancient, but_ _those_ _fresh and tender to the touch_ , I remembered my mother's voice in my mind. I remembered . . . and I understood.  
  
“In those years, the Dwarves of Nogrod and Belegost were just venturing forth from their ruined homes in Ered Luin to seek out their kin in Moria. They were hard and angry, for they were the sons of those that fell in payment for Thingol's death – some may have been of that generation itself, even. I will never forget the _flame_ of his beard as the Dwarf looked down at my mother . . . and then turned away. He had only to reach down his hand . . . and yet, such a thing was fitting, the Dwarf said in our tongue - making sure that we would understand his words. Their own clan was crippled by their losing so many of their dwarrowdams when Beren and his army sought vengeance for his wife's kin, and he thought to repay an eye for an eye. After the Dwarf turned, my mother was able to get Rúmil up to safety, but at the cost of her own life.” He finished his story in clipped and simple words, as if anything more was beyond his ability to speak.  
  
For a moment, there was only the sound of the forest between us; the wind through the branches, and the chattering of the stream over the river-rocks below. Strange birds gave long and warbling calls, singing to the forest as the day awakened around us. I gave Haldir a moment to collect himself, unsure of what to say in reply. I wished that I was my mother then, full of wisdom and poised words so as to aid the grief I could clearly see before me. But all I could do was push the vaguest sense of sympathy and support towards him, and hope that it helped but little.  
  
“Where is your father now?” I asked after a long time had passed, wanting to break the silence between us.  
  
“He crossed the river with Oropher's folk,” Haldir asked after a moment. “He could not abide living so close to Moria, and his heart was quick with anger, even with the healing of Lórinand for so many years.”  
  
“And yet, you stayed?” I was surprised.  
  
Haldir looked down. “Lórinand has a peace about it, a healing; and it has done Rúmil good. Oropher's spirit is quick and biting, and I did not want to serve such a leader – and I most certainly did not want Rúmil around a people who saw fit to follow him. I have been more of a father to my brother than Hadrion, for while he did not blame Rúmil for my mother's death, per say, there has never been warmth between them as a result.”  
  
Another sound came from the forest. Haldir's head snapped up, but it was not that which he so carefully searched for. He looked to me again. “I wish Moria's children no ill will, and I would not leave Lórinand for our proximity to the mountain people. Nogrod's survivors are few and now intermixed with the sons of Durin; generations have passed since the murders committed by their forefathers. I would not hold that against them to the point where I would leave _my home_ on their account.”  
  
I was silent, reevaluating what I had previously thought to so completely understand. I felt small in the wake of my hasty words; small and humbled. Yet . . . still not completely in the wrong.  
  
Haldir tucked a smile away when he saw my first moment of dubiousness at his words. “I saw your eyes when I mentioned Mablung's death – but I never knew my grandfather, and I would not leave his murder at the feet of an entire race. Indeed, the Dwarves of Belegost were great friends of Doriath in the Elder Days. All too often our people forget who it was who helped us carve Menegroth from stone; who it was who stood shield to shield with us in the First Battle.” He seemed amused by the doubt in my reaction. “Although I see that you have built up quite the opposite picture of me in your mind. I have little liking for the Dwarves, it is true, and I find it hard to trust them - but I do not wish them ill, and when need be I can stand beside them for the good of both of our races. . . I had thought myself more healed than that until your words pointed out my own shortcomings.”  
  
His voice was thoughtful, wry even, and I was then reminded of my father. Such was Celeborn's opinions for the children of Aulë, even with my mother's gentle patience and subtle coaxing over the years. Sometimes, I thought then, our long memories were a burden, making deeds of centuries ago seem as but days ago.  
  
 . . . my temples pounded then, burdened by the twisting of my thoughts.  
  
“I meant it when I said that I reflected much on your words over the winter,” Haldir said again. On my back, the gift of his arrows felt heavy. “And I realized that the feeling of foreboding I bear for the Gonnhirrim, I bear for all of the races. It is true that my heart bodes ill for the greed and arrogance of the Dwarves.” For hearing so, I could not help but think of the sleeping monster deep beneath Moria, safe only so long as the King Under the Mountain reigned with wisdom and a restrained hand. “Yet I fear their greed the same as I fear the hunger of Men. It is the same as I worry for the staleness and . . . while I hate to dub it _apathy_ , apathy is what it is, that comes to our race with our many years.”  
  
There was wisdom in his words, I could not help but think. Was that not why we were here in Lórinand to begin with? The forces that pushed us here . . . if worse came to worst, then our closest allies were the Dwarves in Moria and Oropher's folk in the Greenwood. Who knew how long we had to heal old hurts in order to work together for the good of all? One year? Fifty? A hundred? At the very least, strides had been made this day, and I felt a twinge of hope as I thought about the years to come.  
  
Yet, my thoughts were interrupting by movement in the wood. I peered into the fog, and -  
  
“Shh,” Haldir put a finger before his mouth. I looked, and saw where all of the wardens leaned forward from their perches in the trees. Even silent Rúmil blinked, his eyes glittering for the arrival of _something_ . . . something tall and slow and _old_. . . I could feel a great presence touch my senses, an _ancient_ presence that breathed with the forest and exhaled with the wind in the trees. No, I corrected myself, the forest breathed with _these_ beings . . . these . . .  
  
_Onodrim_ , I understood as my heart twisted in excitement. The great Shepards of the forest.  
  
I looked, and sure enough, what seemed to be the trees themselves moved towards us. The Tree-folk were tall beings, standing some fourteen feet high, with limbs like branches and soft brown skin covered in layers of grey bark and green moss. They stood on massive trunks of legs, with seven toed feet that stretched like roots as they moved slowly over the ground. Their deep eyes were brown, shot through with a green light - where, within, seemed to glow all the wonder and glory of Yavanna herself. There were about a dozen of them, moving slowly eastward. If they noticed us, they did not slow – to an even more sedate pace than already they used, that was - but many of the wardens stood as if preparing to follow.  
  
“They head to visit the Entwives across the Anduin,” Haldir said to my wide eyes. “They go every few summers to try and convince their woman folk to return to Fangaorne. But the Entwives like to cultivate the land; to order the fruit tree and the planted field to yield before their labors. They want more than the wild growth of the forest, and yet, the Onodrim cannot quite see their point of view – so they migrate to visit each other when they can, each one content in their place.”  
  
“My father has such stories to tell about the Onodrim,” I said. “He was one of the ones who first taught them speech in the woods of Ossiriand, and Fangorn himself holds a special place in his heart.” _Fangorn_ , whom my father simply called _Eldest_ , and revered above most.  
  
“You shall meet Fangorn on this march,” Haldir was delighted to inform me. “Though if you bring up Fimbrethil you will not be able to get a word in edgewise. They took the gift of speech and expanded upon it _at length_ , as you will see.”  
  
“Then we shall accompany them?” I asked, unable to keep the excitement from my voice.  
  
“To the Anduin,” Haldir answered. “It has been tradition for many years, and the Onodrim are always . . . glad for listening ears.”  
  
And I was more than ready to listen, I thought, joy in my heart as I too rose to follow.  
  
To this day, that first march with the Ents remains a treasured moment in the long years of my memories. There had been Entwives waiting on the far river, and to know that their great and fertile gardens were turned to ash underneath the wheels of Sauron's armies, one torn from the other during the long days of their separations . . . It was a thought that caused me a deep sorrow, even to the day I left the shores of Middle-earth.  
  
Yet, the Ents still sing of hope for the future to come, believing absolutely in reunions and lost loves found once more - and theirs is a song shared by all those who toil in Ennor, in one form or another. The glory of the forests in those days now survives only in the memories of my people, but it is a memory I treasure. I treasure, and I hope . . .  
  
I simply hope. For now, I place my quill down, and remember the songs the Onodrim had sang to the trees as they passed – chastising unruly sprouts and greeting old oaks like cherished friends, all the while humming in anticipation for greeting their spouses across the river. Their words were long, but well worth the time it took to listen. Even now, thousands of years later, I remember. I close my eyes now, hearing the waves themselves roll in time to their song as I was carried even further West.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Amdír and Oropher** : Tolkien mentioned that Oropher was related to Thingol, and dwelt in Doriath – where we can assume that Thranduil was born. Oropher's exact relation to Thingol is made up by me, and not directly supported by canon. But hey, if Tolkien can use Elmo as a genetic placeholder to explain Celeborn's relation to Thingol, then I can use him to link Amdír and Oropher as well. ;)
> 
>  **Amon Lanc and Oropher's Folk** : It is canon, according to in Appendix B of T _he History of Galadriel and Celeborn_ , that Oropher led his few Sindar into the Greenwood to avoid Lórien's contact with the Dwarves of Moria, and also to escape Lórien's ever growing influence from Celeborn and Galadriel. Oropher was embittered against the Dwarves and Noldor both, and sadly, he never let himself heal from the hurts he suffered in the First Age.
> 
> Oropher first settled on the east banks of the Anduin river, on the hill of Amon Lanc. Much later in the Second Age, after Sauron returned as a spirit from the destruction of Númenor, Oropher moved his people north to the Black Mountains (Later called the Mountain of Mirkwood). Thranduil did not build his underground caverns until the Third Age, when Sauron returned as the Necromancer – building Dul Guldur on the now abandoned hill of Amon Lanc - and Shadow started to turn the Greenwood dark. Around this time, Mirkwood was named by the Men living in the forest.
> 
> Interestingly enough, Tolkien specifically mentioned that Oropher and his Sindarin followers found peace in the Silvan people and their ways, endeavoring to become like them in all things - and thus recreate a time similar to before the Valar came and 'disturbed' the peace of the Elves. The Silvan, in turn, benefited from the wisdom of the Sindar, and together they were able to create great and beautiful realms in the forests. Which is interesting in the face of Thranduil's apparent Silvan prejudice in Peter Jackson's adaptation. 
> 
> **Haldir's Backstory** : All my own. You may take it or leave it as you may! :)
> 
>  **Fangaorne** : The Sindarin name for Fangorn Forest. There is an interesting passage in the UT where Fangorn said to the original king of the Galadrim: _“I know mine, and you know yours . . . but if an Elf should walk in my land for pleasure he will be welcome, and if an Ent should be seen in your land fear no evil.”_ So, once was, there was no distinction or boundary between Lórinand and Fangorn. The forests were that all-encompassing before Sauron burned through the land on his march to Eriador. :(
> 
>  **Ents** : _Onodrim_ in Sindarin. Also known as the Tree-host and Caretakers. When Aulë created the Dwaves, Yavanna his wife despaired over her forests, foreseeing just what would be used to fuel the forges of the Dwarves. She entreated Manwë to speak to Eru, and Eru gave her the Ents as a race to safeguard the forests against the axes of the Dwarves. In the eldest of days, the Elves taught the Ents to speak, 'curing them from their dumbness – always wanting to speak to everything, the Elves of Old were.' There was a great friendship between Ents and Elves – Ents even aided Beren and his army when they chased the army of Dwarves from Nogrod out of love for Thingol (and Lúthien, who dwelt in their forest in Ossiriand as a mortal, but, I digress!. Unfortunately, by the time Pippin and Merry met Treebeard, the Ents were few from the destruction of their forests, and the few remaining Elves (compared to their once great numbers in the First Age) retreated to their own realms to defend against Sauron.
> 
>  **Entwives** : While the Ents loved the wild of the forests, the Entwives loved to cultivate the land, farming and fielding and 'teaching their craft to others'. They lived across the Anduin river, and the Ents would visit them to try to convince them to come back to the forests. They 'lost' the Entwives when Sauron marched across the land, turning the gardens of the Entwives to the Brown Lands – but there has been a curious sighting or two around the Shire (a people who cultivate and love the land) that may suggest that the Entwives have not gone too far. ;)
> 
> . . . I think that I covered everything else in the text, but if there is anything else you are curious about, let me know! :)


	6. Entry VI

For the most part, our first years in Lórinand passed quietly. The forests were silent and peaceful, existing as they had for centuries; much as they would continue to do so long after those dwelling beneath their branches would depart. I learned much in those years, and found my wisdoms growing and deepening in ways not possible to me whilst living in Ost-in-edhil.  
  
I met Haldir at the turn of every new year, where observing the march of the Onodrim turned into a custom between us. When he was stationed at the western marches, he would often accompany me past the shade of Lórinand to the Dwarf-roads just beyond. There I would meet the traders from Moria, who were ever passing to and from the Anduin vales with their wares. I became a familiar sight to them, and they carried my correspondences with Nothri back and forth with good humor for the unconventional shape of our friendship. As the years passed our bond grew strong and stronger still, mainly deepening through our letters, which spoke of everything from his burdens of state to my own exploits and discoveries in Lórinand.  
  
Once, when Haldir accompanied me to the Dwarf-road, it was Lóni himself who delivered Nothri's letters to me. I darted a glance at my companion, but he said nothing more than polite pleasantries, and his interaction with the Firebeard was civil. Lóni too looked curiously at Haldir, as if sensing a current in deep water, but there was nothing more to their encounter than that.  
  
I expected Haldir to say something about the Nogrodrim once we turned back to Lórinand, but all he said was: “Have you ever seen a more curious colour of hair?” and nothing more.  
  
It took me a moment to reply. “The Dwarves are blessed by Aulë,” I remarked thoughtfully. “Such a colour should not be too terribly surprising.” Besides the House of Mahtan in Valinor – the copper-smith who was beloved by Aulë – it was a very rare elf who bore hair the color of flame.  
  
“You speak so easily,” Haldir teased, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. “Did you too not stare at the first?”  
  
“Perhaps I stared a very little,” I returned. “And yet, they found my own hair to be an equal oddity, so the fascination was mutual.”  
  
Haldir gave a true smile in reply, and I was pleased - even relieved - that meeting the Firebeard had not dampened his spirits with memories.  
  
When we stopped for the night, I showed him the moon-runes that Nothri used to write to me. The paper, once blank, came to life before our eyes as Ithil rose fat and full above us. The runes danced upon the parchment in welcome to the night, shimmering from silver to blue as clouds passed before the light of the moon and moved away. Even after years of witnessing such a feat, I could not help but smile at its novelty, and this time was no exception.  
  
Haldir was not as impressed as I. “A pretty, but ultimately wasteful trick,” he concluded – raising a brow dubiously when I told him that the runes could be further enchanted to only show during a certain phase of the moon, or when certain words of Power were spoken. “While useful for secrets, much will be lost that would be better found in the years to come.”  
  
“Perhaps,” I returned. “But the secret of the runes shall be remembered, and as long as that secret is known, the words can be recovered again.”  
  
“So you say,” Haldir was not convinced. “Either way, such a form of communication is tacky and extravagant – a showy waste of wealth. Yes, it is a most _dwarven_ invention to my eyes.”  
  
I looked over at him, but when I recognized the humor in his voice, I simply rolled my eyes in reply to his words. Swatting at his arm, I took the parchment back from him, eager to read Nothri's latest letter and compose my own in reply.  
  
Two summers following, when traveling westward along the Nimrodel to deliver my latest bundle of letters to Nothri, we encountered a woman singing in the wood.  
  
Her song was enchanting and lovely, sung in a language ancient and long out of use – one that I only recognized from the snatches of Silvan that had survived in Lórinand's everyday speech. Her voice seemed to be something more than that produced by a mouth and breath, for her song _was_ the laughter of the river and the dance of the cool water over the stones. Her song  _was_ the trees where the wind brushed fondly through their tall branches, coaxing their leaves to dance. I stopped, unable to keep myself from listening.  
  
I could not make a clear sight of her. Like a glimpse of a doe in the dappled sunlight, I caught but a flash of golden-brown hair and the darkest of green skirts, but then I could see her no more.  
  
“Was that . . .” I started, but could not finish my thought.  
  
“Nimrodel?” Haldir finished for me. “Yes, that was her.” He was silent for a moment, a story I had long since glimpsed at resting in his eyes. He sighed. “She followed our host when we first entered the forest, but she would speak with none but Amroth as we passed. She was drawn to him, and he, in turn, was bewitched by her.”  
  
“He is smitten,” I said, remembering Amroth's eyes as they fell with every passing Yestarë that she did not attend. I felt a pang in my chest, wishing more for my friend.  
  
“As completely as Thingol was by Melian,” Haldir agreed. “He is enchanted, and has no wish to break free.”  
  
I looked down the river, hoping to catch sight of her again. While I could see her no more, the river still carried her song, singing softly and sweetly into the midday light. “Is there any hope of a future for them?” I asked after a moment.  
  
Haldir paused before answering. “Nimrodel is very fey,” he at last said. “She is of the earth, of the water. She remembers the stars and mourns the light that the sun cast on war and discord. She can _feel_ the Shadow upon the land, and she will not wed with her mind so ill at ease.”  
  
“Hence the talain,” I whispered as understanding dawned. “Amroth wanted to create a haven for her.”  
  
Haldir shrugged. “And still it is not enough. Nimrodel smiles for Amroth, but she will not pledge her troth with his, and so Amroth waits, and hopes.”  
  
“Would that he could love someone worthy of his devotion,” I said, unable to hold a note of frustration back from my voice. I could only think of Amroth so earnest and hopeful, peering into the forest and waiting for Nimrodel to show her face. My heart hurt in response to his pains, and I could not quite keep myself from feeling so.  
  
Haldir looked at me, and there was something strange in his gaze. “I would merely call him patient. He understands that some hearts require time.”  
  
He did not blink, nor did he look away from me, and I at long last looked down, as if drawn by the river's song. I did not look up for a long time, and when I did, Haldir too had lost his gaze to the river.  
  
More years passed, until one day I stopped and realized just how long we had dwelt in Lórinand. Nothri's latest letter was joined by an invitation, for Fáfnir his father had grown ill with his many years, and he wished to pass on his crown to his son while he still had the vitality left to do so. How old was Nothri now? I had to pause and count my own years. Ninety-two years had passed since the first time I travelled through Moria, I realized with a start . . . which would put Nothri just over a hundred and twelve years of age come the spring.  
  
. . . already? I narrowed my brow, thinking about the swiftness of time as it passed. It seemed just yesterday that I journeyed to Moria to see Nothri wed his bride – a strong and fierce Longbeard who stood as the perfect foil to his softer sensibilities and warm kindness. At first he had worried that he would not come to love his mate – for he, like most Dwarves, chose a wife for her strength and the might of her name, as would befit the future Queen of Moria. He had counted himself as blessed when love grew between them, and for that I too was grateful - truly, I could not imagine a marriage based on anything else.  
  
Nearly twenty years ago I had journeyed to Moria to see the celebrations surrounding the birth of Nothri's heir – a beautiful black haired boy named Brokkr, who was as much a light to his parents as he was a reason for his people to rejoice for their King to come. I had missed the birth of Sindri, his daughter, some fifteen years ago, but nine years prior I had seen his second son born – a boy named Eitri, with bright, watchful eyes who smiled even as a babe. While holding him I could _feel_ the mountain's song in his tiny pulse, and I knew that he would be a great crafter of wares in his years to come.  
  
Thanks to Nothri's letters, I already knew of Fáfnir's failing health. It was something that weighed upon my friend, and I had always been at a loss of what to say in reply. I had never experienced even a common sickness in my lifetime, let alone knowing of someone who suffered from the curious failing of heart that his father did. Now, to know that Fáfnir had but _months_ left to him was something that I could not comprehend. He had been the picture of vigor and health the first time I passed through Moria, and to imagine that his beard could whiten, that his brow could crease with age . . . it was something I could not understand.  
  
And yet, it was as Nothri had said. I saw Fáfnir during the ceremony, and where once his great beard was black, now it was white and thin from the hollow lines of his face. His strong brow was heavily creased by time; his skin spotted in places as if bruised. He stood with a stooped back, leaning upon a gilded cane. Even so, his eyes were untouched by the time that crippled him. His gaze was clear and blue and strong – and openly did the King of Moria blink back proud tears as he took his crown from his own brow to set it atop his son's head. There were no cheers for the new King, not yet. Instead there was a solemn silence that turned into the chanting of a thousand tongues as those gathered bowed their heads and sang to Aulë, asking their Maker to bless their new king throughout his reign.  
  
As I had for Nothri's wedding – a ceremony that outsiders were normally forbidden from witnessing – I stayed to the back of the Great Hall and to the side, not wanting to stand obviously in a place where I so clearly did not belong. I understood the great honor Nothri granted me in being able to witness such a sacred event, and while I had not yet mastered Khuzdul to the point where I would join in their song, I did hum in the back of my throat, offering my voice to the prayer as it rose to fill the massive chamber with a strength that was all but _living_ in its potency.  
  
Not only did Aulë bless the Dwarf-king, but the superstitions of the Dwarves said that Durin himself would come to dwell in the heart of his heir - to see through his eyes and rule through his scepter. The sacredness of the coronation was where they believed such a transfer to happen, and all waited with baited breath. I did not know if it was the spirit of Durin or the blessing of Aulë, and yet, something hot and powerful settled over the chamber as the song reached its crescendo, only to vanish completely when the last whisper of voice gave way to silence.  
  
Then and only then did the people cheer, and Fáfnir embraced his crowned son, pride and adoration shining bright from his eyes.  
  
The feast to follow was grand indeed. The celebrations were open to all in the mountain, and every public corridor and open space of Moria seemed to be flowing with strong ale and rich delicacies as their new King was toasted and honored from the highest of courtiers to the lowest of bellow-workers. While I was glad to be present to see Nothri receive his crown, I kept to myself during the festivities, not wanting to give the tongues that disapproved of my presence any more reason more to wag. This moment was for Nothri's family and his people, and so, I found my feet wandering to where a few of the elderly dwarrowdams had the children of the royal family and highest noble-dwarves gathered in a hall of fountains and luminescent blue stone, minding them while their elders enjoyed the festivities for the night.  
  
I sat down at one of balconies overlooking the hall of fountains, and let the murmur of the water and the laughter of the children mingle with the sound of the revelries from just beyond. Both filled me with a sense of joy, one that I held close as I found a moment of peace amongst the chaos and good cheer.  
  
I do not know how long I sat there before I was joined, but I looked up when a shadow fell over my spot on the bench, smiling to see Nothri himself. He was resplendent in the dark blue and black of Durin's house. Mithril lined his beard and circled each of his fingers, while giant sapphires and yellow diamonds were sewn into every hard geometric design upon his doublet. He too looked worlds different from the youth I had first met in Moria, all of those years ago. Wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes in smiling lines, and age touched the black of his hair with white in one eye catching lock that flowed from his right temple.  
  
For a moment I could not help but stare, processing the differences that letters could not quite capture. The youth I had first met had only just started to grow hair upon his chin, but the man before me wore his beard elaborately braided down the front of his chest, showing the years he had put into such an accomplishment with boasting and pride. He was handsome with his strong features and his curling black hair – more majestic than fair, I had at last come to decide. He looked every inch Durin's heir with his bearing and grace.  
  
 . . . and yet, his eyes had aged more than anything else. Wisdom and insight filled his pale blue gaze, shining from behind his warmth and kindness - fitting, I thought, to match the weight of the crown atop his head - a wonder of craft far outshining any other bauble he wore for his coronation. I looked at the great diamonds set into his crown, counting seven of them, representing both the stars of Durin and the First Fathers themselves. Each was the size of a walnut, and all glittered with the facets that had been cleverly cut to emphasize their perfection and brightness.  
  
His crown, I thought, looked very heavy indeed.  
  
“It is,” Nothri said wryly after a moment, “as heavy as it looks.”  
  
“You, my friend,” I said in reply, “have an uncanny ability for reading my thoughts.”  
  
“Such a talent,” Nothri deadpanned, “is not only a gift belonging to the Elves.”  
  
“So I have proof of before me,” I replied, standing so that I could bow properly in greeting to the newly crowned King of Moria.  
  
“Please,” Nothri waved me up, “I have had quite enough of such protocol to fill all my days - and I have not yet spent one turn of the sun as King, at that.”  
  
“Very well,” I straightened from my curtsey. “Though you deserve every form of respect as it comes. I am happy for you, Nothri, and want you to know that your father was not the only one to shed tears of joy for your donning Durin's crown.”  
  
His cheeks flushed beneath his beard, and I bit back a smile at the sight, joining him as he sat on the bench by my side. His youngest son was one of the children playing below, and the smiling little boy paused from where he had been involved in a game of tag with Sviur and Austri's children to wave a chubby hand up at the balcony above. He was a tiny thing with a thick mop of curling black hair, and I could not help but smile at the absolutely adorable picture that the children made as one tackled him for his moment of inattention. But Eitri was on his feet a moment later, their game resumed as easily as if he had never stopped to welcome his father in the first place.  
  
It seemed that just days ago Austri had been that young at her brother's side. Now she was a mother of two daughters herself – two princesses blessed to the royal family was said to be a gift from Aulë himself, at that – and so accomplished in her smithing that she had crafted all of the finery that Nothri wore, all but for Durin's crown itself. I felt an ache pass through me, thinking of how quickly time was passing for my mortal friends, but that was a thought I quickly tried to push away, not wanting to think of it until I was confronted with the full truth of their limited days.  
  
“It is staggering,” Nothri muttered, watching his son as he played, “just how quickly they grow. Only yesterday I could hold him in the crook of my arm to the palm of my hand. Now he grows too tall to even sit upon my lap.”  
  
I could hear the wonder in his voice; the mingled fear and pride of a father. I felt warmth fill me for it. “You are a good father,” I said after a moment. “Your children adore you.”  
  
“Yes,” Nothri muttered, “but can I be father to all?” He bowed his head, looking troubled with the weight that rested upon his shoulders, no doubt as seemingly heavy as the mountain itself. “It . . . it frightens me, the idea that I will fail my people . . . the thought that I will lead them astray when I have sworn to do only good by them. It . . . it is said that Durin's spirit now resides within me, but I cannot tell a difference. I still feel as _me_ , and I cannot help but think that I am not that which my people need - and deserve.”  
  
He looked down, and his crown caught on the light.  
  
“I cannot speak yes or no as to Durin's soul,” I said after a long moment, considering how best to shape my words. “But I can say that you start by asking the right questions. It is a humble king who can admit to not having all of the answers, and it is a wise king who shall seek the advice of others before making the hard decisions with the welfare of your people first in mind. As long as such a head wears the crown, I foresee that you will do great deeds in the name of your people.”  
  
Nothri glanced at me, his smile tugging at his mouth. “Is that the famed insight of the Elves I hear?” he asked, teasing. Even still, there was gratitude in his eyes. Peace, as well.  
  
“Rather, it is the faith of a friend,” I shook my head. “Moria deserves such a King as you, and you will be the leader she needs in the time to come.”  
  
“I hope you are right,” Nothri said after a moment. “Truly I do.”  
  
He did not say anything more than that, and neither did I. Instead, we both sat in silence, and listened to the children laugh below.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
Once every hundred years, the people of Lórinand and Greenwood the Great would meet in order to reforge old alliances and reaffirm the ancient bonds existing between our peoples. The Silvan had carried on this tradition long before the arrival of the Sindar, and since the division of Amdír and Oropher's people, it had become an even more anticipated day for both realms.  
  
My mother and I had arrived in Lórinand in the winter of 1400, and had missed the Meet only by a season. Now a hundred years had passed, and most in Caras Galadhon readied themselves to travel from Lórinand to the Greenwood beyond. As we traveled, we were joined by many of the Sindar and Silvan who lived beyond the high places of Caras Galadhon. The people from the woods, and even those few from the river vales, journeyed us from both the south and north to sail across the Anduin in the great swan ships that the people of Lórinand had crafted - for there were those amongst us related to Círdan's Falathrim, and even the great shipbuilders in the West beyond. They knew their craft well, and I appreciated the chance to make use of their wares.  
  
Amon Lanc was located no more than a league from the banks of the Anduin river. The hill rose massive and proud from the never ending sea of the Greenwood. Upon its bald face, an elven settlement had been built with graceful mosaics of carved wood and sculpted stone, endeavoring to resemble the splendor and natural beauty of the forest surrounding it. The settlement was open and airy, letting in the birdsong and the sweet wind from the river beyond. The summer had come on the heels of a healthy winter and a spring heavy with rains, and the hills were covered in rolling green grasses and carpeted with endless flowers of purple and pink and white. Banners and streamers hung from many of the trees and dwellings, and the harpers were already strumming their melodies when we arrived. Their song was bright and cheerful, seemingly mingling with the zest of the summer itself.  
  
This visit to the Greenwood was my first time meeting Oropher Elmoion, the Elven-king of the forests east of the Great River. While our kind did not show our age upon our faces, I could _feel_ the vast years that emanated from him as we stopped before his throne. His presence was ancient and powerful to my senses, reminding me of the thrum of power that came with the oldest trees in the forest. Oropher was the elder brother of my grandfather Galadhon, whom I had never met, and thus old enough to remember my own father when he was still a babe in swaddling clothes – something he never failed in reminding Celeborn of. And yet, I could not quite begrudge him his pride for his years, for few were the Elves of Ennor left who could count so far back in their days.  
  
At first, Oropher reminded me of a magpie - decorated as he was with milky white stones and blue crystals, shining from the nest-like carving of twining branches and antlers that formed his throne. My mother caught my thought, and her eyes crinkled when she hid her smile to keep it from showing. I was aware that I was staring, for it was strange to see how clearly he resembled my father, and I was struck then by a lance of _missing_. The differences were few - where Celeborn's hair was a shining silver, Oropher bore a long mane of blonde hair, so pale that it was nearly white. He wore his hair perfectly straight, with no braids or ornaments of any kind - only a crown of elegantly twined branches, tipped with the white flowers that bloomed beyond his hall. His features were haughty, more sharply pointed than my father's, but he was impossibly beautiful for the severe arch and shape of his countenance. His eyes were the same blue-grey of my father's – the same eyes that I bore, inherited from Elmo himself – and they blinked long and slow upon looking at me. Everything Oropher did seemed to be slow and thoughtfully done. It was almost as if he had lived so many years that he now felt no need to rush even the smallest of motions. There was an almost static like sense of power emanating from him, and I knew from my father's tales that his tongue was quick and biting to match. I found myself both fascinated and wary next to the might of his presence, the way a tree would both appreciate the rain and fear the lightning from a spring storm.  
  
I stared openly, but my rudeness did not seem to phase him when Oropher returned my stare unblinkingly. He looked upon me even as Amdír and Amroth gave their pleasantries, and my mother too greeted the King of the Greenwood with all the grace she would have shown for Finwë's court in Aman. Oropher was silent through this all, and yet, I could not tell the shape of his thoughts for good or for ill. After the last greeting was given and returned, the corner of his mouth slowly lifted, and he said, “You have your father's look to you, child. You are fortunate in that.”  
  
While Oropher had been curious as to me, he had scarcely given my mother more than a passing glance. In all of my years I could count on one hand the people who could turn Galadriel away from their thoughts when she willed her presence upon them – really, only Celebrimbor could, and my father demonstrated that talent too when they were moved to quarrel. Now I was amazed to see the disrespect that Oropher paid to another ancient power amongst our people.  
  
His words were intended as a slight, I instinctively felt – not for me, but for my mother. It was true, I bore little of Galadriel's appearance or talents in my blood, and yet, Oropher had been one of the loudest tongues in suggesting that the little of her spirit and power she had been willing to share for my birth had been intentionally done. I felt my own ire rise at his implications, and I had to bite away my instinctive first words in reply – not wanting the Elven-king to glimpse where I had inherited the Noldor temperament in spades.  
  
“I am fortunate with my lineage on both sides,” I said, still bowing my head respectfully before Oropher's throne. “Few are those who can boast of such a heritage as mine, and I know pride for the names behind my birth. It is a similar pride you yourself can claim to, is it not, good-King?”  
  
Oropher's pale brow narrowed in irritation. He was unable to refute my words when I turned them to compliment his own lineage, and I could feel both my mother's amusement and pride at my handling of myself.  
  
_It is not a merely Noldor fault you bear_ , she commented wryly into my mind, and I had to bite back my own smile in reply. _For none are those who would ever call Thingol and his line_ placid _in their temperaments._  
  
The leashed power of Oropher's spirit danced across my senses, building like lightning before it struck. At my side, I could feel my mother's golden spirit rise in unconscious response to the challenge – something that was more light and firmament in comparison to the natural pull of Oropher's soul, drawn as his power was from the land and Galadriel's was from the light itself. All gathered could feel the warning therein, and yet, Oropher merely smiled. He inclined his head gracefully as he drew his power back.  
  
“I know not to which side of your heritage that I may attribute that silver tongue of yours,” Oropher finally said. “And yet, something tells me that I shall enjoy attempting that discernment. For now, I welcome you to Amon Lanc, and wish you and yours the best of luck in the Games to come.” He turned back to Amdír and Amroth as he spoke. “It shall be the Greenwood's pleasure to come out the victor once again, this I can assure you.”  
  
“One poorly aimed arrow was the difference between victory and defeat when last we met,” Amdír returned with relatively good cheer. His jaw too had set for Oropher's initial rudeness, embarrassed as he was for his uncle's actions. “You shall not find us so easy bested this year.”  
  
“Perhaps talent will decide the winner more so than blind luck during these Games,” Oropher gave an elegant shrug. His eyes glittered. “I look forward to seeing you defeated truly.”  
  
“As much as I would hate to disappoint you, I am afraid that I must. The honor of Lórinand would not allow me to return home with two defeats suffered two centuries following,” Amdír bowed mockingly, and at the levity between the Woodland kings, the atmosphere as a whole lightened. The court breathed.  
  
“Then you shall be a guest of mine for longer than I first anticipated,” Oropher said, and his eyes were smiling. “You may stay as long as it takes for your ego to mend, my friend.”  
  
“Forgive me if that is an invitation I hope not to make use of,” Amdír said, and at that, the formality of the court fell away. Oropher stood to talk to Amdír more privately, and the muttering of the audience rose from a whisper to a happy chatter as old friends greeted one another and old rivalries were playfully rekindled for the Games to come.  
  
The Meet was always celebrated by tests of strength and skill in the Games – where everything from horsemanship to archery pitted the Golden Wood against the Greenwood in friendly competition. Through all of the individual competitions, score was kept, and one realm was declared the victor by the end of the Meet. I was filled with anxious excitement for the competitions to come, and many around me felt the same.  
  
My mother joined Oropher and Amdír in their conversation, though I could feel the tight cast of her annoyance all the while. I tried to push what support I could her way, and I felt her warmth brush my spirit in return, even as she urged me away. Oropher had been her dragon to slay for quite some time now, and while her efforts in Lórinand were yielding fruit for the days to come, this was one battle she had long been preparing for.  
  
For a moment, I almost pitied the Elven-king. Almost.  
  
“Do your teeth hurt?” Amroth asked, knocking his shoulder against mine as we turned from the hall. “With the way you were clenching your jaw back there . . .”  
  
I raised a brow in reply, and fought the urge I had to huff at his words. “If I bite my tongue,” I responded as sagely as I could, “then it shall not wag unseemly.”  
  
Amroth laughed. “Such wisdoms you bear, even with the unfortunate blight of your Noldor blood.” He drawled his voice in an impressive mockery of Oropher's haughty tones.  
  
“I do not know,” Nórui said from Amroth's opposite side. “True wisdom would be in _you_ drawing out completely from the swordsman's competitions, my friend. Your footwork costs us points every year.”  
  
“Perhaps I shall spare you the pain of watching me, and send Celebrían to fight in my place,” Amroth shoved his friend, but did not move to deny his claim. While he was a great archer, he was only a passable swordsman, even though he had been working on improving his skills.  
  
I gave a look of distaste, glancing at Nórui. “While I appreciate your attempts at educating me in the ways of steel, I am humble enough to acknowledge my limitations. I fear that I will lose us more points than Amroth's faulty footwork.”  
  
“You are an . . . attentive student,” Nórui said diplomatically, to which we all laughed.  
  
“And I will continue to be so until I advance to the point where I do not run as great a risk injuring myself on my own blade as I do on my opponent's.” I still smiled, but all of our moods dimmed at that point. Over the last few years training had intensified for all in the wood, and what was once done for simple defense and good sport was now practiced with an edge of urgency. Even the Meet this year bristled with a nearly palpable energy, that which was _more_ than just the rush of the Games and the joy of greeting old acquaintances anew.  
  
And yet, we brushed our darker thoughts aside and moved to join the queues already forming in the rings that had been erected just for these events. In the days following, the Greenwood ended up taking the overall lead during the sword games. Amroth made a valliant showing for himself, fighting to where even Nórui was proud of his performance. I spied a green handkerchief tied around the leather strap of his scabbard, and I raised a brow in question, curious.  
  
“ _She_ is here,” Amroth whispered, his eyes searching the crowds. Nimrodel had given him a token, I understood then, which would explain his rather inspired performance earlier. “I shall prove my worth for wearing a symbol of her favor during the archer's tourney.”  
  
“It is not fair,” Nórui complained, reaching over to tug on the handkerchief in bemusement. Even for his teasing, his eyes were happy for his friend. Behind him, even grim Thandir was smiling for his prince. “Not all of us have a fair maiden inspiring them from the sidelines.”  
  
“Here,” I said, reaching up to take a long blue ribbon from my braids. I then tied it in a neat bow around the arch of Nórui's bow. “Now you are equal.”  
  
“I shall treasure your token, fair lady,” Nórui beamed at me. He gave a sweeping, courtly bow. “However, you have now given me no way to excuse my failure to come when Amroth slaughters me in the archer's tourney. It is an impossible task you heap upon my shoulders.”  
  
“It is not _I_ you should worry for defeating,” Amroth pointed out, “but rather, the lady herself.”  
  
Nórui grimaced, and I could not help the small flame of pride that warmed me at his words. Those I had met in Lórinand put even the best archers of Ost-in-edhil to shame (besides Celeborn himself, perhaps), and I had developed my skills over the last hundred years to the point where I looked forward to show my father all that I had learned. If I could take even a small placing in the archer's tourney to come, I would be pleased.  
  
Behind us, Haldir looked on in silence as we bantered. He had been the only one of his brothers to leave the marches for the Meet, and now he looked at the ribbon tied around Nórui's bow with a thinly concealed look of distaste. I tried to catch his eye, wondering what was ailing him, but he evaded my glance. The next competition was then starting, and I put the odd moment out of mind completely.  
  
We made up the points we lost in the sword games with the equestrian tests, and we broke even with the Greenwood in the foot races and the knife tosses. Haldir made a good showing for himself in the archery tests on horseback, and Nórui took multiple points for his performance in the melee – for where he was shorter than any other in our circle, he was impossibly strong and crafty, and he knew well his weapon of choice.  
  
And yet, the highlight of the Games was always the archery tournaments, the bow being the specialty of the Wood-elves since the earliest of days. There were accuracy tests with the longbow, and tests of speed with the shortbow. There were games which mimicked battle with both moving targets and archers, and yet, as it had at the last Meet, it all came down to the last game of the week – a traditional archer's show-down, with the winning point being awarded to the last archer standing through a process of elimination.  
  
All throughout the day, an archer from the Greenwood continued to catch my eye. At first I had thought her Silvan for the _feel_ of the forest I could sense emanating from her, and yet, the silver-blonde of her hair whispered of her Sindar blood. Her Sindar blood, and something else . . . something more.  
  
“Calelassel is part Noldor,” Amroth indulged my curiously with a grin, enjoying the surprise that bloomed in my gaze. “Her father was one of Thingol's Lords in Doriath who acted as Oropher's right hand. Upon settling in Sirion he met a rather fetching Lady of Gondolin from amongst the refugees, and Calelassel is the fruit of that union.”  
  
“Oropher forgave one of his own a Noldor marriage?” I asked, dumfounded.  
  
“It was not his place to say yes or no as to the union,” Amroth said, for it was as simple as that. “Oropher has respect for the lady and her talents, enough so that he keeps his own prejudices to himself – for the survivors of Gondolin too suffered at the hands of the Kinslayers, did they not? Besides, Calelassel favors her Sindarin blood, as I am sure you can feel. She would not be here otherwise.”  
  
. . . that I most certainly could feel. Her connection with the forest all but shimmered on the air around her, and as a result each of her arrows flew straight and true, the high trees and twittering birds seemingly guiding her every move. A peace and confidence emanated from her, making it as much a joy watching her as it was competing against her.  
  
I was able to keep pace with her in the longbow matches, while she took a decisive victory with the moving targets. When it came down to the final match of the day, all of the archers lined up for a traditional archer's showdown. Each contestant lined up fifty paces away from our individual target, and then took our aim. We were to fire four arrows in the time of a minute. Those who were most accurate advanced, and the field was halved with each round. As the rounds advanced, we backed up ten paces for each shot, both our time to shoot and the target itself turning smaller and smaller with each round.  
  
I made it to the second to last round. At that point, there were only four of us left – Amroth and I from Lórinand, and Calelassel and a Silvan archer with rich chestnut hair from the Greenwood. The targets were now far across the field from us, and I had to squint to make out the center ring. We only had ten seconds to shoot our arrows for the final rounds, and my pulse was leaping and racing for the challenge this round presented. I breathed slowly, in and out, holding my hands still by my side as I waited for the signal to begin -  
  
The flag fell, and I drew my first arrow in a smooth motion. Before I aimed, my heartbeat was wild in my chest, and yet my breathing was now calm and collected. I moved with a cool certainty as I let my arrow fly, over and over again. The four arrows were gone before I could blink, and then the second flag fell, declaring the end of our time. I walked down to retrieve my arrows, and was pleased to see that all of my arrows hit the center two rings – a personal best for me in that time from that distance. I glanced to my side, and saw that Amroth had done better than I by one arrow more in the center ring. He was smiling widely, searching the crowd for Nimrodel, and I smiled, pleased for my friend. To our right, Calelassel had hit all four arrows in the middle ring – the last arrow even splintering the first in their crowding to hit the exact center of the target. I blinked, impressed, even with my being disqualified from the contest.  
  
I retrieved my arrows and stepped back to the sidelines where my mother was waiting. As I walked up to her, the smile widening Galadriel's mouth made me feel as if I had won the entire tourney instead.  
  
“Your father is proud,” Galadriel whispered when I was close enough to hear her. She cupped my cheek with a cool hand, and leaned down to touch her brow to mine. At the touch I could feel where she let me glimpse her bond with my father – undimmed, even with such a distance between them. My father was as a shadow to my senses for the last century, but now he blazed at the forefront of my mind. I could feel Celeborn's love and pride as I had not since leaving Ost-in-edhel, and I felt weightless in the glow of his affection. I let my father's love fill me as one hungry, basking in the affection of my parents even as the last round of the tourney went on unnoticed beyond us.  
  
In the end, Amroth just barely took the win from Calelassel. They each shot a near perfect four arrows in the last round, and their scores were so matched that they had to do a dead-shot in order to determine the winner. Two small double-sided targets were tossed into the air, and both archers took their aim as one. Amroth won only by shooting into the upwards side of his target, while Calelassel hit the bottom – and there were whistles of appreciation for the skill of both archers for the feat.  
  
Oropher grudgingly declared Lórinand the winner of the Games, and Amdír's smile was a bit too pleased in reply.  
  
Afterwards, I looked and saw where a lovely woman with golden-brown hair and impossibly green eyes came out to greet Amroth after his victory. She did nothing more than touch the handkerchief still tied to his scabbard, but I instantly knew her to be Nimrodel for the easy look of affection that filled his eyes, and the almost awestruck way he lifted his hand to touch the side of her face. I soon looked away, giving them their moment, and found that Calelassel was coming towards me, her bow still held loosely in her hands.  
  
“I enjoyed the competition you provided this day,” she said when she was close enough to do so. Her voice was low and warm when she spoke. This close, I could see the green in her blue eyes. “Should you allow yourself but a half moment more in your follow through, I do not think that I would like to face you in the next Meet.”  
  
“That always proves to be my fatal error,” I replied, hearing both my father and Amroth in my mind at once – echoing Calelassel's constructive critisism. “Even still, I am sure that you would have nothing to fear from me. You were amazing today.” I meant my every word, and she smiled prettily in reply.  
  
“Not amazing enough, it would seem,” she said, glancing over to where Oropher was suffering through Amdír's well meaning teasing for Lórinand's victory. “And yet,” the corner of her mouth lifted. A playful look touched her eyes. “I do believe that the loss was worth it. There are few things more enjoyable than seeing our King quite so put out, no?”  
  
I instantly decided that I liked her. I smiled in reply, wondering just how wicked her tongue could be behind the gentle face she held. “Now,” I had to ask, “How do you manage loading a third arrow on one draw? I have mastered two at once, but never anything more.”  
  
“And you,” Calelassel said, “must tell me about the strange feathers your arrows are fletched with. They give an added burst of speed, I am sure of it, and you have me perplexed.”  
  
“It would be my pleasure,” I said, and went into detail about the northern bird that Haldir had used to gift my first set of arrows to me – which I had since used in all of the arrows I made.  
  
We talked until long into the evening feast, and made plans to speak again upon the morrow. Meeting her, I was almost painfully reminded of Sítheril, for I had not yet met a close female companion to even begin to match her place in my heart. Already I looked forward to knowing her better in the years to come.  
  
When the sun set, it was then time to award the victors of the individual games with their prizes. My mother stood next to Amdír and Oropher to hand out the tokens. The awards ceremony went with applause and well meaning teasing and encouragement from friends and rivals, and yet, it was not until my mother passed an arrow made of a glittering black stone to Haldir that I became of something wrong.  
  
It was short and subtle; how her breath hitched, and her eyes flickered. I could feel a wave of coldness from her spirit, before she just as quickly pushed it away. Anyone else would not of caught it, I was certain, but I knew my mother well, and I _knew_ that all was not right.  
  
She caught my eyes over the crowd. _Later_ , she said, and later did not come soon enough.  
  
When I was at last able to find her alone, the night had fallen and the primarily Silvan gathering was taken with singing their star-songs for the night. Where normally their music would draw me to the fires beyond, I instead found Galadriel on the edge of the festivities, her eyes glazing in a way that said she was lost within her mind – communicating with my father, perhaps? Or, with someone else?  
  
Her eyes focused when I joined her. They sharpened. I waited patiently for a moment, and then two, before asking, “What troubles you?” in a voice that worried.  
  
Galadriel was silent for a moment more. Her gaze flickered. “Annatar left Ost-in-edhil this eve, by the east road.”  
  
I blinked, startled. For this was not what I expected at all. Cold dread settled in my stomach, matching the sensation I had glimpsed from my mother earlier. “Then his purpose with Celebrimbor has been achieved,” the words were stiff from my mouth. “He no longer has any use for him.”  
  
“That is what your father and I fear,” Galadriel's voice was carefully neutral as she spoke.  
  
And still . . . it did not make sense. “Then why still keep a fair face?” I asked, bewildered by this turn of events.  
  
“For now he maintains his facade,” Galadriel said, and I heard what she did not say. "For what end, I do not know."  
   
“Then,” I said slowly. “It was not what he created with Celebrimbor . . . but rather, what he learned.” Premonition struck at me, and yet, it was a faceless threat we faced, a nameless dread I felt.  
  
“That,” Galadriel said, pride in her gaze alongside her concern – for I had unerringly touched upon a bruise in her thoughts, “is a question that shall plague us until its answer is revealed.” I fisted my hands together, anxious then. The dark now seemed to be full of threats, of promise, and not even the light of the stars was enough to shine through when knowing that _somewhere_ -  
  
“ - and yet,” Galadriel followed my thoughts, “we will uncover no answers this eve. Go, enjoy yourself and the friendships you have cultivated. In the days to come, they will be needed all the more so.”  
  
I nodded, understanding the wisdom in her words. And yet . . .  
  
“Will you join me?” I asked, not wanting her to be lost to dark thoughts for the rest of the night.  
  
“In a moment,” she answered after a pause. There was fondness in the touch of her mind against mine, but also a subtle withdrawal. For years uncountable had she borne these burdens upon her shoulders, and she would continue to do so for many more. I only hoped that I could help ease her load in the days to come - for truly, I then felt ready to do so, to do more than blithely live through my days while the Shadow grew overhead.  
  
“You do more good than you think,” my mother said simply, my mind ever a blank page to her. “Now go, and I will follow.”  
  
I nodded, but still I hesitated. I turned to go back to my companions, but there was now a shadow on our festivities. The night hour was suddenly _more_ around me, and its shadow was one that would not lift with the morning hour.  
  
  
  
.

.

The years continued to pass; only now they moved as if holding their breath. It seemed as a blinking of the eye until, one day, it was not Nothri who wrote to me, but Austri.  
  
I had been expecting this letter for some time now, but expectation did not help sooth the pang I felt when she relayed her brother's wish that I come to Moria to see him one last time before his end. Durin called to him, and he would not live to see another winter, she feared. So I gathered what I needed, and set out for the Dwarf-road. Activity from Gundabad grew all the more fierce with each passing year, and this time I had a small escort accompanying me across the foothills. I had not been to Moria since Nothri's grandson was born – Durin, the third of his name – and that was nearly thirty years ago for all of the turbulence coming out of the north.  
  
Nothri wrote at length about their toils against their Orc neighbors. So far, they had been able to keep their northern-most halls free of their black filth, but it was a long fight, and one not without cost. When I had ventured the idea of elven support the last time I walked Moria's halls, Nothri had given a sharp grin and said that they had been dealing with Gundabad since the earliest of days, and they would continue to do so until the last. Premonition had flared thick within me at his words, and I had to contain a shudder to imagine the gilded halls around me filled with nothing but dust and memories; the chatter of goblins overrunning the song of the forge in the mountain ways.  
  
My friend had been the king Moria needed during this time, and I knew that Brokkr would continue onwards in his father's stead. Still, the idea that Moria would already need another head beneath the crown could not quite sink in. I knew of my friend's failing health, and yet, it was not until I was admitted to his study that I fully understood time's hold on him.  
  
_He is mortal_ , the thought ghosted across my mind, as lost as any wailing spirit. How could he have changed so much, so quickly? I had known him for nearly two centuries, a mere breath of years in my eyes, and already time had betrayed him. His thick black hair had thinned and turned the color of steel, while lines creased his skin and potmarked his face, each one telling a tale of his many years. He did not stand from his small couch to greet me, and the idea that his strong body providing him no aid was something I could not at first comprehend. He was not sick . . . rather, his body was simply giving out on him, one thing after another failing him until his breath too would at last leave him behind. The tide and turn of age and death left me bewildered, and I first merely stared, at a loss for words.  
  
Nothri caught my stare, and he made himself stand. He used a walking stick now, but his balance was tricky, even so.  
  
“This is,” he commented wryly, “the unfortunate price of bearing mortal blood.”  
  
“You do not look a day older than last I saw you,” I said with a straight face, endeavoring to keep my expression serene. I did not need him to comfort _me_ when he was the one in pain.  
  
“You bluff,” Nothri said slowly, “as horribly as ever.” His smile stretched, and that was familiar to my eyes. “I have at least one game of dice left within me, so I hope that you came prepared with coin.”  
  
He tried to lift my spirits, and so, I let my mouth smile. Still, it was pained. “Your eyes are the same,” I said honestly. “I spoke the truth in that sense.” His gaze was still pale, blue and piercing, and within his eyes I saw the friend I had so long known.  
  
“I could, however, say the same about you,” Nothri blinked as he looked at me. “You do not look a day older than when first we met . . . but for your eyes. There is a weight there, showing where you have aged in spirit as I have in body. No longer are you the wide eyed girl I first met, your mouth agape for my kingdom's splendor.”  
  
“I keep my mouth closed only through a supreme effort,” I returned. “It is not always easy.”  
  
“Even so,” Nothri smiled. "Even so."  
  
Something painful twisted in my chest as he turned, heading to his desk and the odds and ends that still blanketed it – he unwilling to let his duties pass until he could attend to them no more. “I am glad that you were able to come before the snows made such travel impossible,” he said as he walked. His progress was slow, and he leaned on the desk for support as much as he did his cane. “Come spring, your trip would not have mattered. Already I can feel Mahal call to me . . . he speaks from the stone, promising me such a rest before I am to give him my hammer in aiding with the rebuilding of the world . . . and I am tired, my friend . . . so very tired. I know not how long it is until I have not the will to resist my Maker, and then at last I shall sleep.”  
  
My eyes burned as he spoke so wistfully of death; so fondly of peace. I inhaled deeply, and let my breath out slow.  
  
“Ah, here we are,” Nothri said, sifting through the scrolls and parchment for a bound leather book. He picked it up as if it were the dearest of treasures, and I looked, curious. “I wanted to give this to you myself. I did not want it to pass to you, cold from the hands of another.”  
  
It was a book, but not any mere tome, I immediately saw. It was thick with its many pages, as thick as my two fists put together. The cover was painstakingly lacquered, tooled with geometrical designs and overlaid with mithril where the crest and stars of Durin had been inlaid upon both the cover and the spine. I recognized Nothri's surprisingly subtle hand, and knew that he had designed this himself. Curious, I looked and found stories within – tales and histories and lays; legends and songs and the simple day to day stories of his people. As many as he could fit, he had translated within – writing the great lore of his people down where now it only existed passing from mouth to mouth. It was only a fraction of his people's cultural wealth, but it was still a lifetime's work.  
  
“This is beautiful,” I said, my voice low and reverent. It was a great work I held in my hands, priceless in its value.  
  
“I knew from our first meeting that the time would come when my limited years would force me to say farewell,” he said. His voice was thick from his throat. “I had always wished to present this to you at the end of my days . . . this way you may remember me, and remember _for_ me, even when my own people forget.”  
  
“I will treasure this,” I said, looking away from the book to meet his eyes, “the same as I have treasured your friendship.”  
  
I had not my mother's ease with the mental arts, her ability to touch any soul in any being, but my years of knowing Nothri had been long, and my fëa recognized him for the bearing he had on my spirit. I tried to show that in return, pushing a wave of appreciation and love towards him, saying without words how much I had treasured his friendship. At first, I did not think that my efforts were successful, but a moment later Nothri touched my hand, and his eyes were shining with unshed tears.  
  
“Now then,” he said, turning to sit down on the cushioned couch once more. His place was close to the warm hearth, and he looked comfortable. Comfortable, and weary. “I find that I tire easily these days, and already I need respite. Would you humor an old dwarf and gift me with one of your lays? Perhaps the tale of the Fairest-born . . . your Morning Star?”  
  
I was willing to do anything that he wished, and I sang Lúthien's story in a voice that wavered. Nothri did not say anything to my delivery of the song, and soon, he feel asleep to my words. I continued to sing, whispering of mortality and numbered days until my voice all but burned within me.  
  
The week following, Nothri passed his crown on to Brokkr as Fáfnir once had to him. He was white knuckled as he let his crown go, and his hands trembled, but the tears in his eyes were not only those of mourning.  
  
And then, only days later, on Durin's Day, Nothri answered Aulë's call and joined his ancestors in the Halls beyond our world. The mountain filled with songs of mourning that day, strange songs sang from deep within throats and given with tears in eyes. Nothri was entombed in the stone of the mountain that had birthed and sustained him, and each in his family whispered his true name before saying their farewells. I was quick to offer my own goodbyes before stepping aside, not wanting to intrude on the family's grief. Even so, Sviur embraced me with tears in his eyes, and Austri too thanked me for coming. Each of my friends were now white headed with their days, and looking upon them only caused a fresh pain to bloom within me.  
  
The mountain grieved, and I grieved with it; but where Moria mourned in her own way, I made my way to one of the higher summits on the slope, one still open to the night beyond – needing as I did the cold fresh air and the comforting light of the stars. I sang my own songs of mourning well into the night, and upon the morrow my voice was hoarse and dry.  
  
Days later, I departed from Moria and made my way to the marker of Durin's Stone by the Mirrormere, where my escort had camped in wait for me. Haldir was the first one to see me approach from the mountain, and he came to meet me, concern in his eyes when I did not immediately return his greeting with a smile. My heart was heavy in my chest, and each step felt as something forced. My eyes constantly burned, as if I was ever a moment away from tears. I did not meet his eyes, not wanting him to see the listless look in my gaze.  
  
I was not quite ready to turn back to Lórinand, and no one pressed me. The day was cold, and all wore thick cloaks with their hoods raised against the chill sweeping down the mountains and off of the lake. Even so, Haldir joined me in walking the shore. The normally green grass was brown and dead of life, patiently awaiting the winter's blanket of snow, and the earth crackled underneath our boots. There were no birds singing above us, and even the sky was grey overhead, thick with the promise of the year's first snow.  
  
It fit my mood perfectly, I could not help but think.  
  
Death was a most curious thing, I then contemplated. The Wise called it a Gift – an untold blessing given by the One to his children to enjoy in the time after, but I could not understand where the _gift_ precisely laid. It did not feel _natural_ , this grief, this pain – knowing that for all of my great years I would never see my friend again, never speak to him or hear his voice in return . . . it did not yet feel real. It was not something I could properly wrap my mind around, and I was little more than a child in the eyes of my kind, few in my days when compared to the vast millennia that I would someday know. Was there something waiting for me to understand? Was there some great secret that my years would yet unveil, explaining the necessity for death to exist as it did?  
  
Many amongst my kind had friendships with Men – and some even with Dwarves, as I had – but many also drew back after that first true friend died, understanding death and its bite and not wanting to endure its pain again. I was unsure of how to deal with my grief now, having faced nothing like it before. I felt a moment of abstract appreciation for mortal kind – for I was nearly four-hundred years old, and they yet knew something I did not. They still managed to carry on with their shortened years, and endure so much within those few days. Even underneath death's shadow they still lived with love and joy! What secret did they know that I did not? Would they simply answer _time_ to my queries, and understand the necessity of embracing what little they could in the few years they had?  
  
My thoughts ran in circles as we came to a stop on the bank, looking down at where the seven stars of Varda's sickle glittered in the lake, even with the grey skies hanging heavily overhead. _Durin's stars_ , I thought with a pang, and my grief assaulted me anew. My eyes burned in warning, and my breath caught in my throat in an alarming way. But I would not cry. I _would not_.  
  
I stubbornly blinked through the tears filling my eyes, and I saw Haldir look at me in concern. He did not say anything, but there was an understanding in his eyes as he opened his arms, and just like that, the dam holding back my emotions burst. It was ugly and undignified, crying like this, but I could not seem to stop myself as Haldir awkwardly embraced me and soothed a hand down my back as if I were a child. He made shushing noises, and muttered that it was okay to cry – _to grieve –_ and whispered that I would feel all the more healed for doing so.  
  
A voice within me whispered that I was turning the front of his cloak wet. Surely we had garnered attention from the others, as well, and I did not want any to be concerned for my sake. At long last, I was able to call myself to order, and I stepped back just enough to wipe my eyes and gather my breath once more.  
  
A moment passed, awkward and strained. “I do not understand how this is supposed to feel natural,” I finally admitted, rubbing at my eyes. “It feels anything but.”  
  
I felt embarrassed for breaking down like that in front of him, but he was simply watching me with a sympathetic expression. Even for our immortality, we were not immune to death, and he knew of its bite better than I.  
  
“It does not seem so now,” Haldir said after a moment, “but the pain you feel will someday fade. Your memories will become those you cherish, rather than the pains they are now.”  
  
I could not yet believe that, even though I knew on a logical level that his words had to be true. “Yet, his fëa is not elvish,” I said after a moment. “I do not knew where he goes in death, and the Wise only have their whispers . . . do they go to the stone? Or does Námo take their souls too?” I had exhausted myself singing to Námo that first night, asking him to keep my friend's spirit safe – for even if Námo did not keep the souls of the Dwarves in his Halls, he would know where they did dwell in death, and if he could but listen . . .  
  
“I cannot even look forward to him walking the Western shores in a reformed body,” I continued. “It feels . . .” Permanent. Final. _Enduring._ There was a separation between our fates, and it was one that I could not see though.  
  
Haldir was silent for a long moment, before saying, “I know not why the One made some to live and some to die. I only know that He is a father to his children, and His purpose in creating the world was not one for pain – even with Morgoth's rebellion and taint. But He has promised a breaking and reforging of the world anew, and in such a promise, many things are possible.”  
  
“There the Dwarves will hold hammers to build alongside Aulë their Maker,” I muttered, for it was a story I knew well.  
  
“It is only the theory of the Wise,” Haldir said, “but I cannot imagine anything else to be true. Whether such a thing takes a hundred years or a hundred thousand years, we will be there to see it, and welcome back whom we may – for no sundering is permanent, even those that at first seem to be impossible.”  
  
I took in a deep breath. I swallowed. There was the ring of truth in his words, and solace too if I allowed myself to think on it. And yet . . . “Still,” I whispered, “it hurts.”  
  
“Such is the price of immortality,” Haldir shrugged. “We have our own burdens to bear, the same as any other race.”  
  
My lungs hurt, but no longer did they seem intent on keeping me from breathing. I wiped my eyes one last time, and told myself that was the last of my tears. I would miss my friend, and I would mourn him. Yet, he would not want me to lose myself to my grief. Instead, I would remember him, and, in time, that memory would prove to be dear.  
   
. . . for I had forever to do so.  
  
I looked out at the lake, and this time I let myself see the stars dancing on the water, rather than the overcast sky ahead. My grief and my missing was still there, but I now felt as if I could breathe with them.  
  
Haldir looked at me, and I managed a smile. “Are your men ready to set out?” I asked. “I wish not to make them linger in this cold.”  
  
“Are _you_ ready?” he asked instead, evading my question. His eyes were piercing as they looked at me, searching for even a flickering of untruth.  
  
I nodded, looking away from the water. “I am ready,” I said, and spoke my words truly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Odd Gaps in Time** : We are only hitting the first of them, believe it or not. While Galadriel left Ost-in-edhil in 1400 SA for the growing threat of Annatar/Sauron, Sauron did not leave for Mordor until the year 1500 to forge the One Ring - and that forging took him another hundred years, upon which Celebrimbor was able to sense him for who he truly was. Afterward, it would be another _ninety_ years before all out war broke out. I know, these are some large chunks of time, but I guess that is what you get when you have a Maia (older than the physical universe) warring against a race of immortal elves. Their timelines move so much more _slowly_ than ours. 
> 
> **Calelassel** : Did you figure out who she was? ;) Although the courtship of Legolas' parents is something I won't be touching on until much later, I had to include Celebrían meeting Calelassel here. You can read much more about her and her relationship with Thranduil in my ficlet collection, [This Taste of Shadow](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1058602/chapters/2175989), just as she will be certain to pop up here again soon.
> 
> As always, I thank you for reading! I will update again soon - there won't be a long wait like that again, I promise. My muse was just . . . distracting me every time I sat down to edit this. ;)


	7. Entry VII

With the dawn of the following spring, the shadow we'd long since feared took on an exact name and shape.  
  
I was scouting with the march-wardens on the eastern borders of Lórinand, eager for fresh air and exercise after the long and harsh winter spent indoors. The straight trunks of the trees were still dark with snow melt, and the ground was thick with mud from the thawing land, sucking at our boots as we passed. Tentative buds had just started to dot the branches of the trees, waiting for the warm air to coax them into life again; while a tentative bird sang overhead, a question in his voice for the arrival of the spring.  
  
We were tracking the trail of a hart in the wet soil when we heard movement in the underbrush, followed by a splashing in the river just beyond. Curious, we headed towards the sound. It was no Orc who walked so light of foot, we reasoned amongst ourselves. Yet, whoever it was hurried through the forest with a jarring and lost stride, clearly unsure of his way. The figure slipped more often than not, muttering curses beneath his breath as he went. Had a Man from the river vales lost his way in the woods, we wondered? It had been many years since a mortal soul last passed through the eaves of Lórinand, for mankind seemed to instinctively sense the otherness of the forest and gave it a wide berth whenever they could.  
  
When we peered through the branches to see our visitor, I did not first recognize him. To our surprise, the man was elven – and Noldor, at that – with his pale skin and his night black hair. Such a sighting was curious, for the nearest Noldorin settlement was Ost-in-edhil itself, clear on the other side of the mountains, and yet -  
  
Haldir and his men lowered their bows upon seeing the man's fey identity, and yet, their looks were suspicious and tightly closed. Something about the man tugged at my memories, and it took me a moment to identify him. I had to look beyond his travel-worn figure and pale, _pale_ face to recognize -  
  
“Celebrimbor?” I stood from the shadow of the trees to greet the elf, surprise in my voice.  
  
Celebrimbor all but started upon hearing his name spoken, jumping back so that he almost fell into the river once more. He was soaked from the waist down, and the water had splashed up to splatter the upper half of his body, but he did not seem to register the cold of his damp clothes. The whites of his eyes were wide as he looked from me to the march-wardens in the trees with the flickering gaze of a doe contemplating flight.  
  
I swallowed against the sight of him, my heart twisting for just how changed the last two centuries had left him.  
  
“Celebrimbor?” I asked again, pitching my voice softly, as if coaxing near an injured animal. “Do you remember me? I am Celebrían . . . Galadriel's daughter,” I had to clarify my identity when his eyes flickered. He frowned as if trying to grasp something just beyond his reach.  
  
“Celebrían . . .” Celebrimbor worked the syllables of my name as if he had not known me since my birth. “Galadriel . . . Artanis,” at the last, his voice strengthened. His eyes sharpened. “Yes, _Artanis_. I need to speak with her; for she will know what to do, she will know what to say . . .” and just as quickly, his eyes were lost again. He held a hand to his temples to cradle his head, and for a moment I do not think that he was aware of anything around him.  
  
“Yes . . . Artanis,” I tried to reach him once more, my mother's name of old awkward upon my tongue. “She is here, and I can take you to her.”  
  
I could feel where Haldir stiffened behind me. I leapt nimbly down from the tree, carefully approaching Celebrimbor with a cautious step. Haldir followed me, his stride slow and his eyes distrustful when I glanced back at him.  
  
“I do not think him to be well,” Haldir disapproved. His voice was thin with distaste as he looked Celebrimbor up and down.  
  
“Most clearly,” I darted a look at my friend.  
  
Haldir ignored me. “He does not feel . . . I cannot give a word to describe it. The trees did not wish to let him pass. Only the name of the Golden Lady let him through, else they would have cast him out. Can you not _feel_ it?”  
  
I set my jaw, ignoring the strange pulse of power I could feel pouring from the Fëanorian. It was a unsettling power; rippling and hungry in comparison to the feel of light sparkling upon the water my mother bore. I did not like the feel of it in the slightest, yet I liked the thought of turning him aside to cast him beyond our reach even less.  
  
“It is my duty not to allow any to enter who may present a threat to the forests,” Haldir continued. Behind him, his men looked uncomfortably between Haldir and I. They too could feel the sense of _otherness_ emanating from Celebrimbor, yet they did not wish to turn away someone who needed their aid – or worse, someone whom they would be better off keeping an eye on. They were unsure of which course to choose.  
  
“There will be a greater threat if we let him leave,” I said with a calm certainty. At the back of my mind I could feel my mother stir, only a heartbeat of surprise coloring her presence before a calm determination passed from her spirit to mine. “It matters not what you or I think; my mother wishes to hear what he has to say, and Amdír has left this decision to her.”  
  
Haldir still looked on Celebrimbor with distaste, taking in the tattered hem of his cloak and the worn brocade of his fine clothes. He was mud splattered and forest stained; his hands were scabbed and his fingertips bled sluggishly, while his once black boots were almost unrecognizable for their color. He wore no pack, he carried no supplies, and I had to wonder if he crossed the mountains as such. The thought of the practical and _exacting_ Celebrimbor I had known wandering until he found Lórinand left me with an unsettled feeling, and I pushed my thoughts aside as I tried to approach him once more. He jumped when I touched his arm, wheeling around to look at me with wide, unfocused eyes.  
  
“My mother is this way,” I said gently, coaxing him down the path towards Caras Galadhon.  
  
“Artanis?” Celebrimbor whispered. His voice was low and wistful. “Have I found her?”  
  
My heart twisted inside of my chest for the lost look in his eyes. “Yes, Artanis is here,” I answered him, slipping into Quenya as I said, “She is this way, if you will follow me.” My accent was awkward and cumbersome when compared to the smooth tones my mother bore when speaking the language of her birth, but it did the trick. Celebrimbor's look focused; his eyes sharpened.  
  
“I will follow you,” he answered me in kind. His words were smooth and rolling, accented with the lilting tones of the Noldor-king's court – a sea away and centuries out of use. “I thank you for showing me the way.”  
  
I could feel Haldir's look dip for my use of the Exile's tongue, but I ignored him. Instead, I concentrated on keeping Celebrimbor's attention during our journey through the forests. The trees looked down on us as if judging, and for the first their graceful canopy of boughs felt unwelcoming over my head. They trusted us, but they did not like having to do so, and the air of the forest was nearly smothering as a result.  
  
It took us twice as long as it should have to draw Celebrimbor to the heart of the wood. Night had fallen by the time we crossed the Deep Fosse, and Celebrimbor stared down into the moat for an uncomfortable moment, his hands white knuckled about the slim wooden railing. He muttered underneath his breath before turning, and for a moment it sounded as if he carried on a conversation with someone unseen, someone only he could hear.  
  
Galadriel was waiting for us when we arrived, and though I could not see her thoughts upon her face, I could feel her surprise and her concern when she saw the state of her kinsman. She was able to convince him to wash and change before speaking with her, and it was not until an hour later that Celebrimbor was admitted to my mother's study. He looked only slightly more like the man I remembered with his hair brushed and oiled and his skin cleaned and unmarred, even if the various scrapes and bruises from his traveling the wild still remained. His grey Sindarin robes looked odd on him, but at least they were clean and unstained. He gingerly accepted a cup of tea, but he would take no food – not surprising, I thought, with the thin and nearly skeletal appearance of his form. His elbows and wrists poked through his sleeves, and if I were to reach over I was certain that I would be able to feel each of his ribs in their place. His cheekbones were as prominent as his square jaw, the hollow on the sides of his face deep and shadowed where it should have been round and full. If I wanted, I could place the whole of my hand into each of those dips. The sharp cast of his brow matched, looking fit to cut.  
  
Once, I thought with a pang, Celebrimbor had been beautiful – nearly breathtaking with the last of Fëanor's fire all but bursting from the form he wore. And yet, his spirit was now flickering and fractured before us, his great beauty as wan as a ghost ready to flicker from view. His skin sat uncomfortably about his body, dry and brittle and grey, while lines normally foreign to our kind creased the corners of his mouth and eyes in deep wrinkles. His eyes themselves were glazed and far away; their warm grey color now a pale smear of pigment, indistinguishable for its shade. There were great purple bruises about the sockets of his eyes from his lack of sleep, and his fingers tapped out a restless, anxious beat against the side of his tea cup. But, he would not speak at first. His spirit felt anxious and racing, like sparks dancing over a fire, and everyone in the room could feel the heat of his fëa as it flickered.  
  
My mother must have felt so too, for her mouth pursed in a thin line before she reached out with her own spirit, trying to pierce through the haze that blanketed the jewel-smith's mind. I do not know how successful she was, but I waited, equal parts curious and apprehensive for what he had to say. While my mother and Amdír sat before Celebrimbor, I stood to the side of the chamber with Amroth and Haldir, each of us there to listen rather than to speak.  
  
“Celebrimbor,” my mother greeted when at last she was able to hold his gaze. “It has been many years since last we spoke.”  
  
“Has it?” Celebrimbor muttered in reply. His voice was a dry, hoarse sound, but it was absent the lost quality it bore earlier. “On most days I cannot tell weeks from months, and the years themselves are as a haze. How . . . how long has it been?” He blinked, and took in a deep breath, as if fortifying himself.  
  
Amdír leaned forward as if he would speak, but he instead said nothing. Galadriel merely waited, patient for whatever the Noldo had to say.  
  
“I know why you left,” Celebrimbor finally said, his voice turning stronger with every syllable uttered. “I know that you saw what I would not let myself see . . . and yet . . . if I could only explain to you . . . We left the lands of Valinor for a cursed realm in Middle-earth, but those like you and I came to love this world, even as marred as it was. I wanted to give back to this land; I wanted to bestow upon it the same wonder and radiance as Aman itself . . . I wanted this so _very_ dearly, and the things he showed to me . . .” His voice quivered, taking on a note of awe and adoration. “It was like being _home_ again. I felt as if I were once more a child learning my craft in Aulë's forge. I could imagine that I heard my father in my ear . . . my grandfather, even, and to imagine that they would know pride for the works of my hand . . . for that which I created . . .”  
  
He was quiet then, his voice faltering as his eyes turned lost to memory. Galadriel's look was unreadable in reply. “Celebrimbor,” she entreated him. “What did you create?” Her voice was gentle and coaxing.  
  
“Many things,” Celebrimbor blinked, coming back to himself. “Many things which now pale in comparison to the ultimate fruit of our labors. You see, I wished to give to this world the same deathlessness as Valinor itself. I wished to preserve and protect - not only the glory of the Elves, but rather the might of all the Eruhíni! I will not be Fëanor, dragon-like in his need to keep his Silmarils for his own. No . . . I crafted for the good of all . . . And yet . . .” his voice turned to little more than a mutter, his eyes flickering to gaze past where we could see. “Perhaps I must show you what I mean.”  
  
Slowly, reverently, he pulled out three velvet bags from an interior pocket of his tunic. He undid the string on the first bag and slowly, carefully, he revealed the contents within. Onto the table between he and my mother he placed nine rings of polished silver, unadorned and plain. And yet, within the bands . . .  
  
I flinched and took a step back from the table. At my side, Haldir and Amroth did the same.  
  
He undid the next bag, and withdrew seven rings - seven rings of polished mithril, each with a different stone set into its face. He waited to undo the last bag, watching my mother with unblinking eyes as he did so. Galadriel did not give her thoughts upon her face, but she did draw in a quick breath for the discordant note the rings left upon the air. _This_ was the power we had felt upon Celebrimbor. This was what had felt as  _other_ about him; unnatural and tainted.  
  
“Nine Rings for the sons of Men,” Celebrimbor said in explanation. “You may wear it, and the Ring would do nothing for you. Yet, upon an Atani finger . . . I poured into the Ring Man's vigor and lust for life; their determination and quick brilliance to live in the days they have. Wearing these Rings shall lengthen the span of their lives and deepen their wisdoms, giving them the grace and the bearing to rule and augment their realms as their mortality denies to them.”  
  
I held back a frown as he said so - for while my thoughts on the nature of mortality were one thing, it was quite another to move past what the One intended in such an unnatural way. Such a _helping_ for nature could only bear ill fruit, even when crafted with the best of intentions.  
  
“Next, there are seven Rings for the Dwarves,” Celebrimbor continued. “One for each of the Seven Families, and each ring will be the founding trinket beneath a great treasure. Into these rings I poured their resilience and their affinity with the deep places of the earth. With these rings they will be able to magnify their riches tenfolds, and the kingdoms they will raise underneath the Rings' might will be great indeed.”  
  
He swallowed, and breathed in deep. “And yet, there is _more_ in these Rings. I . . . I was not alone in crafting them. Annatar aided me – even imparting of his own fëa to increase the potency of that which we forged. Can you imagine? The soul of a _Maia_ strengthening the bonds and spells . . . it was a craft unheard of, even in distant Aman. I thought only of that which we could create together, and not of _why_ Annatar was helping me . . . _why_ Annatar would give such power away so freely . . .”  
  
Galadriel still gazed levelly at him, and Celebrimbor held her gaze. He did not look away. “I was not so completely naïve,” he finally said. “By the time the last of the Seven were forged, I knew that there was something not completely . . . right about Annatar. As I result, I kept my last creation to myself, wanting not of his aid. In frustration, Annatar left Ost-in-edhil a century ago – to attend to his own lands, he said. Yet, there was a promise in his voice, saying that when he returned I would tell him what I crafted in secret. But I will not let him have these last Rings, I _will not_ . . .” his voice took on a note of the fanatical once again, glazed and staring far away – into a land past our own, I could not help but think.  
  
“These were created by my own doing. Annatar's hand touched them not.” He undid the last bag with a careful consideration, and when he took the three rings from within, his touch was as reverent as that of a lover. “These . . .” he swallowed, and had to start again. “These _I_ made alone. Three Rings for the Elves . . . First is Narya, the Ring of Fire,” he introduced a winding gold band with a blood red ruby. “This ring shall inspire hope, and give resilience to the hands of time – even to the weight which we ourselves feel with our endless days.” He pushed forward the second - a golden ring with a deep blue stone. “This is Vilya, the Ring of Air. This ring I created to preserve and heal. It is, perhaps, the strongest of the Three, and yet . . . the _greatest_ . . .” My stomach rolled upon seeing the ring, while premonition danced unsettling through me - granting me a knowing I could not yet fully understand.  
  
“This,” he breathed reverently, taking out the third – a band of mithril with a great white stone, shining with the light of the stars themselves, “is Nenya, the Ring of Water.”  
  
My mother, carefully neutral until then, started upon seeing the ring. She stared at it, and I felt my feeling of disquiet swell and rise. She looked as if she wished to reach for it, as if she wished to pick it up and slip it on her finger. Celebrimbor watched her hungrily – expectantly - and I did not like his look in the slightest.  
  
“It calls to you, does it not?” he tilted his head like a wolf, watching a doe in the wood. “It _sings_ to you?”  
  
Galadriel made a fist of her hand, but she did not look away.  
  
“Nenya was made _for you_ ,” Celebrimbor said lowly. “To protect . . . to preserve . . . to _lighten_. All this and more shall Nenya accomplish upon your hand.”  
  
I did not like it, even still. If it was not touched by Annatar's hand, it was still created with Annatar's crafts and methods, and such a thing could only bode for the ill. And yet, Galadriel did not cast the ring aside. She did not look away.  
  
“And . . . when it was on your hand . . .” Galadriel looked away only through supreme effort. “You saw something that day, and it is that you are here to tell us of.”  
  
Celebrimbor flinched, called back to himself. “I saw . . . I saw . . .” he muttered. “Oh, but I _saw_ . . .”  
  
Next to Galadriel, Amdír's mouth creased. He looked as if to press the answer when Celebrimbor finally said, “I wore the Three, _all_ of Three, and the world was open before me as if I was glimpsing the mind of the One himself. And yet, the Rings _know_ , the Rings _answer_ , and he . . . he is their _lord_.”  
  
Galadriel's patience bore a limit. “Celebrimbor,” she prompted sternly, her voice filling with the weight of her spirit. “What is it that you saw?” her eyes were bright, nearly matching the white glow of the Ring before her.  
  
“ _Him_ ,” Celebrimbor whispered. “I did not know, I _could_ _not_ know . . . for he was beautiful and fair and wise when he showed to me his craft. But what he created . . . One Ring.” He looked at my mother with suddenly sharp eyes. “He created the One Ring to which all other Rings shall bow . . . One Ring to take his own power and magnify it, magnify it until . . .” he made a distressed noise in the back of his throat. “I saw _him_ through the eyes of the Rings. I saw his dark land of fire and brimstone, and he in turn saw _me_. His great eye of flame saw everything, and I saw the fell spirit his fair form concealed. He whom we thought lost from the First Age . . . Morgoth's foremost Lieutenant and most devoted servant . . . Sauron Gorthaur.”  
  
There were no words in reply to his revelation. Only silence, horrified and stunned. My heart twisted in my chest, and a cold dread settled upon my bones as the black name echoed ominously throughout the room. By my side, Amroth was very pale. Haldir's look was grim. My mother, I thought, did not look truly surprised at all.  
  
“He searches for me even now,” Celebrimbor muttered, putting a hand to his temples. “But I will not let him. I will not let him _see_.” He hissed out his last words like a snake, bearing his teeth to a voice only he could hear. “I pulled off the Rings, but still he saw me . . . still he chased. He wants the Rings - all of them, even the Three. But he shall not, he _will_ not . . .”  
  
“We should destroy them,” Galadriel muttered on a low, hard voice. “All of them.”  
  
Celebrimbor shook his head. “The lesser rings I cannot destroy. The forges that birthed them have since cooled and been relit. Destroying the One Ring should render those lesser dead of their strength. Or, theoretically, a stronger flame than forge-fire could destroy them - dragon-fire, perhaps, but even that may not work. The Three I may destroy, and yet . . .” He swallowed. He did not wish to part from that which he created, I saw. And my mother . . .  
  
Still she stared at Nenya, and I did not like the shape of her gaze.  
  
“Sauron will come for them,” Celebrimbor whispered. “He will come, and war will follow in his wake. I . . . I strove to create something beautiful, something greater than that which the One allowed Middle-earth to know. Now, countless thousands upon thousands will suffer in the days to come, and I . . . their blood will be on _my_ hands . . . their deaths shall weigh on _my_ shoulders.” He swallowed. For a long moment, no one spoke. “I am no better than my father . . . no better than my _grandfather_ ,” Celebrimbor finally muttered, “Even though I swore I never would be.” His voice broke on a low sound of grief.  
  
Fëanor's fire was broad and consuming, I thought, pushing him to craft and push the boundaries of creation. In Celebrimbor, Annatar – _Sauron_ , had seen a fertile and brilliant mind ripe for the picking. My thoughts swirled between pity and cold apathy as I looked on Celebrimbor, for while he was filled with grief and regret, the damage he had wrought was great - even when done with noble intentions.  
  
“You knew full well of my suspicions of the beginning,” Galadriel finally said, and yet, there was no judgment in her voice, no crowing over the accurateness of her foresight. “And yet, I would say that Sauron's evil would have returned with or without your aid. You proved to be an instrument in his plans, but those plans were not wholly contingent on you. The Shadow was bound to reappear in one form or another, only now we know exactly how and where it shall strike, and we may now plan our own reply.” She exhaled, and for a moment her eyes were weary. Determination then filled her gaze, and I felt the touch of her spirit upon the air as she buoyed the confidences of all those in the room. I inhaled, and found my courage bolster underneath her touch.  
  
Then Galadriel whispered, “There is now much to discuss and much to do. But the morn will see to that. For now, take your rest, Celebrimbor, and try to find what sleep you may. The days before us will be long indeed.”  
  
The smith nodded, and without meeting our eyes he gathered his Rings. His motions were heavy and awkward, and he flinched and muttered as he did so – and only now we realized that his doing so was his own way of trying to keep Sauron from his mind. I bit my lip as I imagined what lengths the angered Maia would go to in attempting to rip what he wanted from his thoughts. I did not envy him his struggles and his demons.  
  
He retrieved the Three last, and Galadriel watched Nenya until it was swallowed by the velvet bag. Only then did she turn away.  
  
Celebrimbor left us in silence, and the silence remained heavy for a long, long time as we all processed what we had learned. Beyond us, the night was cool and the stars were out in full, but the shadows felt tight and oppressive, even with their light shining overhead. The trees still whispered in warning, liking not of Celebrimbor's wares beneath their boughs, and their discordant song was smothering when coupled with the dark shape of our thoughts.  
  
When Galadriel at last looked to us, her gaze was shadowed. “What do you know of Sauron?” she finally asked, addressing my friends and I rather than Amdír.  
  
Not much, I admitted to myself with a frown. “Really, what we know is mainly from Lúthien's tale,” Amroth answered first. “The lord of captured Tol Sirion and master of the foul creatures there.” And there he was the tormentor and murderer of Finrod Felagund, who perished to preserve Beren alive on his quest. I thought of the uncle I never knew with a pang, glancing over to see a flash of memory in my mother's eyes.  
  
“He was Morgoth's Lieutenant,” Haldir said next. “His exact role, we do not know more than that.”  
  
“A Maia, fallen from grace,” I said with a dry mouth. “Though, of his fall . . .” I faltered, realizing that we did not know nearly as much as I thought we did.  
  
Galadriel nodded in reply to our words. “His story is known in full to only a select few, and I know what I do only for my time underneath Melian's tutelage and my childhood in Aman.” She gestured to us, and we came to take a seat before her, curious for her tale.  
  
She looked to see that we were ready, and then started her story by saying, “I believe that you know of my grandmother, Queen Indis.” She waited for us to nod in reply, and then said, “Though she was Queen of the Noldor through her marriage to Finwë, she was fully Vanyar, and the Vanyar find their life's meaning through their absolute devotion to the Valar. As such, they had many . . . cautionary tales of the consequences of turning away from the worship of Eru. It was she who told me the first of his tale.” Through Indis' blood, my mother had inherited her talents with the uncanny and her stunning mane of golden hair. Sometimes, I thought ruefully, it was forgotten that my mother was only partially Noldor. She was more Teleri than anything else in her blood, placing her more as kin of Thingol than many would let themselves remember.  
  
“Sauron is a Quenyan name, meaning _abhorred_ ,” Galadriel continued, and I cast my thoughts aside. “As such, it was not always his name. Once, he was a Maia of Aulë – dear to the blacksmith Vala's heart and first amongst his collection of spirit followers. Aulë named him Mairon – the admirable - for his talents, and revered him above all others amongst his Maiar. Mairon helped create the universe during the Great Music, and even stood opposite of Morgoth when he sung his discord into the Creator's Song. Mairon was a creature of order and numbers, and it is told that when he saw the land the Song birthed, he was dismayed for the chaos and disruption that was created with it. He was drawn to the power of Morgoth – for Morgoth, as the strongest of the Valar, thought that absolute worship of all those in Arda should belong to him. For the great span of his might, he wanted even his siblings amongst the Valar to bow to him, and when he was not awarded that, he set himself to destroying all they created in a show of his absolute power. Mairon took note of his might, and through Morgoth he saw a way to cast this world aside and start anew with a land perfect in shape and countenance. In the beginning, his motives were not quite evil. And yet, such ambitions rarely stay that way . . . as we have seen with Celebrimbor.”  
  
Galadriel paused for a moment, her eyes far away. “The Vanyar say that it was simply his wondering, his allowing himself to question the rule of the One that led to his fall. They used his tale as one of warning, but Melian told it differently from that point on. In a way, Sauron was her kinsman, but she did not know him personally. Yet Olórin, a Maia dear to her, knew him well, and told the rest of the tale . . . Olórin is a Maia of Manwë, yet, in the days before Valinor and the Trees existed, he would combine his command of the heavens with Mairon's mastery of the flames, and together they created lighthearted things to amuse their fellow Ainur. Fireworks and things of that nature,” Galadriel's voice was soft, and I knew she told us this for a reason – for no evil was ever truly absolute, and it was important to realize the humane aspects of that which later turned to rot and hate lest we copied their mistakes.  
  
“Melian said that Morgoth noticed his wandering eye and coveted the great scope of his power. Morgoth was smitten by the might of this mere Maia, and wished to have him for himself. And so, Morgoth exerted his will and spirit, and seduced Mairon into his service. Melian said that Aulë wept the day his betrayal became known, for he more so than any of the Valar delighted in those he could teach and call his own, and he views his Maiar as his children as much as he does the Dwarves. He blamed himself for the horrors cast by Sauron's hand, for while Morgoth was raw power and consuming chaos, Sauron was order and cunning. Without his aid, I do believe that Morgoth would have fallen centuries sooner than he did. Sauron was the mind behind his military victories, and the craftsman behind his evil creations – giving shape to his Dragons and Balrogs and Wargs while Morgoth provided them with the flames of their spirits. Together, they were nearly unstoppable.  
  
“At the end of the War of Wrath, the land was even further from the order Sauron wished to grant it. Out of either fear or true remorse, Sauron tried to repent to Eönwë of his many sins. And yet, Morgoth's hold on his spirit was too great for him to turn aside completely. You see,” Galadriel leaned forward, “Maiar are not like you and I. They are not born; they do not grow. In some ways, they are merely tools – servants of their master's will, created solely for the purpose of obeying the orders of their respective Vala. It was a wonder that Sauron was able to cast aside his oaths to Aulë in order to convert to Morgoth's service, and Morgoth . . . Morgoth was not as kind a master as Aulë, and he demanded absolute devotion from his servants. In his own way, Sauron adored Morgoth - for, as a Maia, he was able to do nothing else. It was unnatural for him to break ties with his master, and so, he was never able to cast his chains aside and return to Valinor – even though Eönwë searched long and hard for him before his own duties called him away.”  
  
_I serve a great master, even still_ , I remembered Annatar's sensual voice whispering into my ear as we danced. His tone had been low and reverent then, and I felt a shiver travel up and down my spine for the memory, even after the passing of so many years.  
  
“We knew that Sauron would only be able to resist the call to complete his master's will for so long. For, you see, in a way, this world is Morgoth's. As the One Ring _is_ Sauron, this world _is_ Morgoth's Ring. He poured so much of his spirit into Arda that it is marred, and will continue to be so until the breaking of the world, when the One creates his fine work anew. Perhaps Sauron simply wishes to exploit this taint until it turns consuming in homage to his master, subduing Endórë in readiness for his master's reemerging from his prison beyond the Doors of Night. Perhaps Sauron sees Middle-earth as abandoned by the Valar, and seeks to order it as fit to his own wisdoms, viewing himself as heir to Morgoth's right to rule. In either instance, the Rings are only his first move.”  
  
I processed all that she said with a stone in the pit of my stomach. The world was a dark place, made so from Morgoth's taint in the beginning of all things. And yet . . . “Why the Rings?” I asked. “Why would he share his power in such a way?”  
  
For a moment, Galadriel considered my question. “The only reason for Morgoth's defeat in the First Age was because of his depleted power. Between his sharing so much of his power with his vassals, the holy burn of the Silmarils, and Ungoliant herself gorging on his fëa after the destruction of the Two Trees, Morgoth's strength was but a fraction of its might during the War of Wrath,” Galadriel answered. “From each Dragon and Balrog, to each of the firstborn amongst the Orcs – all bore a spark of Morgoth's flame, and he spread himself thin in his creating. Sauron is a Maia, and he has not the depth of spirit that Morgoth bore. Instead of sharing his own power, he will augment his strength on the strengths of others . . . it is a cunning plan, playing on the greed and weaknesses of those who share this world, and it is a strategy that gives me true fear and disquiet.”  
  
Galadriel was silent for a moment before she sighed and touched her brow in a rare show of weariness. “I have burdened your mind with heavy things,” she said a moment later. “And yet, I fear that the days to come will be filled with such conversations as we find our path. For now, try to find what sleep you may. In the morning we shall have much to discuss . . . much to plan.”  
  
And much to defend, I could not help but think. As I turned away, I glanced back once to find my mother staring at the place Nenya had been, her brow creased in thought. I wonder what crossed her mind then . . . memories of the crippling wars against Morgoth . . . memories of the West as its light was destroyed . . . perhaps she remembered Annatar himself with his mouth twisting and his bow deep as he humbled himself in order to achieve his own ends. Such humility was dangerous, I could not help think – for our foe could smile and hide when it suited him, rather than challenging us openly from the light, and in the days to come . . .  
  
I forced myself to exhale as I reflected that at least we now knew the foe we faced. He had a name and a purpose, and we were no longer left blindly jumping at shadows. Now, there was nothing left to do but to stand up tall and prove that our world was not only a world marred – but a world that still bore the light, no matter what tried to take that away.  
  
My steps were heavy as I turned, but I made fists of my hands, determined for what the next day would bring.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
The months passed as we readied ourselves to confront Sauron's threat. Through it all, Celebrimbor withstood the Maia's constant onslaught against his mind, though the battle taxed him all the more so with each passing day. He further waned during his stay in Lórinand; his body thinning and the shadows around his eyes deepening as he fought against an enemy only he could see. My mother tried her best to help bolster the light of his fëa; yet, as the days passed, not even my mother augmenting his strength was enough. Celebrimbor would eventually break underneath the pressure heaped upon him; this we knew as surely as the inevitability of an all out war. Sauron would come for the Rings; Sauron would come . . . and the world would burn in his wake.  
  
The summer of the year following Celebrimbor's revelation, our scouts at long last returned from their first venture into the black lands of Sauron's rule – a land we started to refer to as Mordor. Riders were then sent to Lindon to share with Gil-galad that which we had learned. Upon receiving our reports, the High-king then deemed it necessary for the powers leading our people to meet and discuss what was best to be done for the first time this age.  
  
With the distance between the Elven-realms in Middle-earth, such a meeting was difficult to arrange. Yet, my mother had other ways of speaking with those far away beyond those ordinary. I had only once seen her practice this art, and I was intrigued to see her work her power in such a way again.  
  
To do so, we gathered in a green dell to the south of Caras Galadhon. Surrounded by a green wall of earth and reached by a twining set of overgrown steps, here the ground was bare and ringed by a sheltering rise of trees. A small brook flowed down the slope of the hill, where it then poured into a gently singing fountain of water. In the center of the clearing, a silver basin had been set upon an ancient stump carved to resemble twining branches. As Galadriel poured a pitcher of clear water from the brook into the basin, Celebrimbor followed her, matching her every move as if he was her shadow. He glanced from her eyes to the Ring she wore constantly, as if unsure where to rest his gaze. Though Galadriel wore Nenya not upon her finger, the Ring never left her keeping. She wore it on a chain about her neck, and there it shimmered with a silver light for all to see. While she had yet to don the Ring, I knew that she wished to, and the strength of her denying her desires was something that prickled against her place in my soul. She was quiet and lost in thought all too often as of late, and I worried for what paths her mind walked when she fell away from me.  
  
For now, Galadriel paid Celebrimbor little heed, nodding and providing him only with the barest of responses to his queries. And yet . . .  
  
I swallowed, and tasted worry as something bitter in the back of my throat.  
  
While waiting for my mother to finish her preparations, I stood off to the side with Amroth and Haldir. As Lórinand's ruler, Amdír waited patiently at the side of the basin – where he would partake of the talks with Galadriel and those whom she would call upon. My companions and I were there to listen and observe, not to comment. Even still, I understood the honor and weight of responsibility assigned to us each with our being there.  
  
For now, I watched Celebrimbor while we waited, liking but little how his hands clenched and unclenched. He constantly fiddled with his first finger, as if searching for that which was no longer there. The _missing_ in his motions rocked me when I saw Nenya flicker in the forest light, its light flashing as if _calling_ . . . No, I did not like the smith's influence on my mother at all.  
  
“He is as a serpent, with all of his hissing and fangs beneath his lips,” I whispered to Amroth when he caught my stare. He too watched Celebrimbor, much as I did.  
  
Amroth set his mouth, hesitation in his gaze. “While I can understand your mother's reservations, the Three were forged with good intentions, were they not? Would there truly be evil in using them?”  
  
“They were still forged with Sauron's craft, even if they bear not of his spirit. From such a thing, no good can come,” I said with decisiveness in my voice. “I fear that it will be for ill to use the Three.”  
  
“And yet, if this craft can help protect our people, should not a thing be considered?” Haldir interjected thoughtfully. His eyes found my mother. “If the many can be aided, could any cost then be deemed too high for the bearer?”  
  
“Your mother is strong,” Amroth said, his eyes clouding at Haldir's words. “The effect of wearing the Ring should not be as it was for Celebrimbor . . . for he was touched by more evil than merely the Rings.” He looked, no doubt seeing Celebrimbor sunken and shadowed as I did. I had to push away a thought of my mother much the same, burdened after her centuries of keeping Nenya, waning until her fëa was fractured and frayed . . . No, I would wish such a thing upon no one. Yet . . . even with my reservations, I knew that it was only a matter of _when_ , and not _if_ , the Rings would be worn. As such, my thoughts were a burden to me.  
  
“We are ready,” Galadriel softly announced. Her eyes found me, and I had an uncomfortable moment where I was certain that she knew the very shape of my thoughts. In reply, her spirit brushed mine with a wave of strength and reassurance. Normally, such a thing was all that I needed to push my doubts aside. Yet, I could not cast them completely from my mind. Not this time.  
  
And yet, now was not the time to think of such things.  
  
“This was a craft taught to me by Melian herself,” Galadriel explained to those assembled as she touched the tips of her fingers to the water in he basin. “The Mirror can show many things; that which has been, that what is, and that which could be. When asked, it can even reach the consciousness' of others, much as you would speak mind to mind with those dearest to you. Today you will be able to see through the Mirror, while those listening will only be able to hear. And yet, for now, such a thing shall be enough.”  
  
Next to me, Amroth and Haldir both looked down curiously, while Amdír stood calmly at Galadriel's side, expectation glittering in his gaze. Perhaps, he thought of Melian herself, standing before a similar basin, and remembered the days of old in a way few others could.  
  
My mother had once explained her craft further to me, showing me how the Mirror could project a 'shadow' of another's fëa, thus allowing her to communicate with those she was not bonded to across any distance. Such a thing had proved useful during wartime in the First Age, and now that such a time had come upon us again . . . I had never been able to copy her art, for which I had at one time thought her to know disappointment for. And yet, I now knew that we all bore our talents and skills in differring ways.  
  
Galadriel dipped her hand into the basin, and whispered a word of power into the twilit air. The forest around me hummed in response to the great cast of her spirit as she asked the water to help her focus and magnify her own strength. She closed her eyes for a long moment, and when she opened them, her eyes were aglow with a light so bright that it was nearly white. The water in the basin rippled and spun, answering her unspoken command before it parted to reveal faces in its depths . . . faces both familiar to me and not.  
  
Galadriel let her hand hover over the basin, and then she raised it. Answering her command, images then stood from the water in shadowy mirrors of their true selves. The figures stood no more than a foot tall in shape, and yet, it was enough to make out expressions and faces, detailing both brows and eyes and mouths. I felt a ripple of appreciation for my mother's power as Amroth leaned forward in unabashed curiosity. Even grave Haldir stared openly, intrigued by the spell-craft before him.  
  
But I looked away from my friends when I saw my father and two of his captains from Ost-in-edhil stand from one side of the Mirror. My heart leapt when I saw Celeborn's face for the first time in over two centuries - for while the touch of his soul could sustain much, my eyes were hungry for his visage. I stared, and even though he could see me not, I knew that he was aware of my gaze for the way his spirit brushed against my own before returning to the meeting at hand.  
  
Across from Celeborn stood three elves from Lindon. The first caught my eye for the sheer curiosity of his appearance. This elf was of the Falathrim, with hair as white as snow and skin tanned from his days spent upon the ocean. His form was strong and broad for an elf, and his hands were thick and massive to match – like the paws of a bear, I could not help but think. This was Círdan the Shipwright, I knew from the beard that he wore carefully groomed upon his face. He was one of the few amongst our people to manage such a feat – for his appreciation and understanding of the sons of Men, some said, whilst others whispered that as one of the Unbegotten he was simply at a stage in his uncountable years where such a growth was possible.  
  
Next to Círdan was a man I knew of in name only. Yet, I instantly identified him for his elegant circlet of gold and the _weight_ of his presence, even when viewed through the eyes of the Mirror. Ereinion Gil-galad was the High-king of the Noldor in Exile - a scion of the might of Finwë through his father Fingon the Valiant, and a living memory of the beauty of the Elves of Aman with his glimmering black hair and his commanding cast of features. In the noontide of the First Age, Fingon had foreseen his immanent death and had given his then toddling son to Círdan to foster, ensuring that the line of Kings would be secure, even after his fall. Fingon found his end only a few years later when marching alongside Maedhros Fëanorian in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears – the last time the Elves banded together in an all out war against Morgoth before the arrival of aid from the West, and at great cost. Fingon had not fallen easily, and his death was a thing of legend – for it had taken one Balrog to hold him still for the very _Captain_ of the fiery demons to land a killing blow when faced with the might of his spirit. In the end, his fëa had burned through the flesh of his body for the ferocity of his fighting, and many had been the tears of our people in lamentation that day. Gil-galad had little memory of his father, and viewed Círdan as his mentor in all ways. Great was the love between them, that even I could see from the way they stood and glanced at each other as Galadriel's power filled the air around them.  
  
Yet, for all the might of the High-king, for all of the ancient wisdom of the Shipwright, it was the third elf who caught my attention, and held it. Fostered by Gil-galad from a young age, Elrond Peredhil was now the High-king's herald and heir in might both through his blood – he being the last descendant of Fingon's brother, Turgon – and through the merit of his own deeds, great as they already were for his relatively short span of days. His was another name I knew of only through hearing, though my parents were well acquainted with him before they moved east to Eregion. I meant to glance at him and then look away, eager as I was for the conversation that was about to begin. And yet, I looked, and found myself then unable to turn my gaze aside . . . Much as I first drank in sight of my father, I now stared - following every line of his strong features, and tracing the long fall of his night-black hair with my eyes. He looked patiently ahead with a pale grey gaze – Lúthien's eyes, I knew the stories would say - and I had a queer moment where I wanted him to turn and look at _me_. Something inside of me flickered in a curious way, as if an ember long since sleeping in my spirit had warmed and sparked to life. I felt burned in its wake, and yet, it was a heat I did not want to flee from.  
  
I realized then that I had missed out on the greetings and introductions, as taken as I had been. Yet, I was drawn away from my so rudely staring when Gil-galad started to speak, the warm tenor of his voice piercing the air with the strength of a war-drum. “You bring us troubling news, my lady,” he said to my mother. “Though, it is news we have anticipated the telling of for long a time.”  
  
“Only more troubling still do our reports grow,” Galadriel said gravely, not curbing her words with soft shapes for this conversation. Her power was not absolute, and I knew that she could only hold the connection in the Mirror for so long. “Our scouts have returned from Mordor; few as were who survived for the numbers they were sent in.”  
  
For that I knew a pang - our first casualties having fallen even before outright war began.  
  
“Already Sauron's numbers count past five thousand score of Orc-soldiers and Warg-riders," Galadriel informed the High-king. "The pits are breeding, and by the time his last yield of creatures mature, his numbers will be more than twice that. The forges bellow; siege engines and swords and spears are crafted in multitude. The steel is infused with Sauron's own taint – forming black weapons to poison as much as they shall render flesh from bone. Mordor's own might will be joined by the Men of Harad and Rhûn, who ever have served the Dark Lords and their ways for fear of anything else.”  
  
The High-king blinked; the only sign of his surprise. “Such a number does he possess already . . . ” Gil-galad muttered, clearly taken aback.  
  
“Sauron has dwelt in Mordor for nearly a century,” Galadriel said through her teeth. “His years of planning were many beforehand, at that - for this we have to assume for his waiting so long since Morgoth's defeat to strike.”  
  
“And, in reply . . .” Gil-glad steeled his jaw in determination as he looked down - where he no doubt had maps and tallies awaiting him. “We shall be able to raise twenty thousand men from Lindon . . . perhaps closer to thirty if we are pressed.”  
  
“The force of Ost-in-edhil will number nearly five thousand once I call in the Sindar from the woodlands and the foothills,” Celeborn said for the first, and my joy at hearing his voice was sobered by the staggeringly low number he spoke. “Already, all within our reach ready themselves to fight, and we work to train those who are ignorant to arms – for Sauron's forces will not distinguish woman and child from our ranks of fighting men. Undoubtedly, his wrath will first strike here in his search for Celebrimbor and his wares.”  
  
So low was this number in comparison to the hundreds of thousands Sauron would have marching at his command. I clenched my fingers into fists, fighting not to be disheartened. The overall population of the Elves of Middle-earth had plummeted drastically with the death-toll taken during the wars of the First Age. After the War of Wrath, when the Valar welcomed us West again, the first to partake of their generosity were young families and childbearing couples. Those of the Edhil left in Ennor loved this land, and loved it dearly . . . yet, that love would not be enough before the numbers we now faced. Sauron bred his Orcs by the hundred-fold and forged his monsters from the Pits by the dozens, while an immortal couple would only see a child or two, perhaps three, for the whole of their eternity spent together. It was not possible for us to keep up with the numbers our enemy would heap upon us.  
  
“You will have nearly eight thousand men from Lórinand,” Galadriel replied. “That number shall all but empty the forests and surrounding vales of all but those who know not how to arm themselves.”  
  
Gil-galad looked at the scrolls before him again, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “And from the Greenwood?” he asked. “What help does Oropher pledge?”  
  
“I know not,” Galadriel answered honestly. “We mean to beseech him for aid; for his archers are the best that Middle-earth can boast of, and many of his people are veterans of the last war. Yet . . .”  
  
Yet, Oropher was secluded so deep in the forests, and he was happy to remain so. I did not know how much the Forest-king would want to give – or be willing to give, at least.  
  
“I see . . .” well aware of Oropher's tempestuous personality from his days spent reigning side by side with the Sindar lord during the War of Wrath, Gil-galad then looked weary. He glance to his side, hearing a voice that we could not - with others gathered on his side to observe the meeting, much as I stood back with my companions. “Thranduil says that while he will not pledge the whole of the Sindar in Harlindon, he will put the choice to each of his people. They may fight if their hearts move them to, and do so with his consent. We can expect another thousand from him, maybe even two.”  
  
“We should have nearly forty thousand in total, then,” Galadriel surmised, “with us scraping the bottom of our coffers.”  
  
“I would taken one Elven warrior for every twelve-count of Orcs,” Gil-galad waved a hand. “I am not yet so disheartened.”  
  
“For a dozen Orcs, I would as well,” Galadriel agreed. “And yet, with this One Ring . . .”  
  
Silence descended, raw and uncomfortable as we each considered the horror that was to come from the weapon worn upon Sauron's hand. At my mother's side, Celebrimbor closed his eyes and rubbed at his brow, muttering beneath his breath all the while.  
  
Gil-galad touched a place on the map before him. “If you wish to move your men over the mountains from the east, I presume that you wish to make use of Moria. What help do you think could come from the King Under the Mountain?”  
  
“The thought has crossed my mind,” Galadriel admitted. “We are on good terms with Moria, and intend to beseech the Longbeards for aid. They fight their own battle with Gundabad in the north, however, and I am not sure what help can be spared, if any.” Galadriel's eyes glinted, though, and I knew she meant to try.  
  
I, however, was not so sure. If Nothri still sat the throne, I knew that he would but empty the mountain for the good of all – understanding that Sauron was a threat not only pressing against the throats of the Elves. After Nothri's death, his son Brokkr continued to write to me - at first out of duty, and then out of a true pleasure in my correspondence. Yet, he had tragically fallen in the battles against Gundabad during the winter. His son Durin III had reigned since the spring, yet he was different from his father and his grandfather . . . He had not carried on his father's letters since taking his crown, and what I remembered of him from my journeys to Moria was that of a hard youth with eyes full of gold. No . . . I was no longer sure what help would come of Moria should we ask.  
  
Gil-galad nodded thoughtfully, making another mark on the scroll before him. “With these numbers . . .”  
  
“We will not be able to attack Sauron from the north when he makes to pass the mountains, as first I would have hoped,” Galadriel said.  
  
“Sauron will make his way east through the Gap of Isen, we presume, and then push his forces north towards Eregion,” Gil-galad shook his head. “Even if you had the numbers, that is too far a path to cross from the north – especially with the mountains cutting you off from aid. Better would it be for you to cross the Misty Mountains through Moria, and supplement Ost-in-edhil's forces from there. Celeborn will not be able to hold the city long enough to retreat if Sauron reaches Eregion before I can set Elrond to march from Lindon. Their survival may depend on whatever aid comes west over the mountains.”  
  
“I may be able to buy Celeborn time to retreat,” for the first, Celebrimbor spoke. His voice was grim, and while his voice did not waver, he made fists of his hands so that they did not tremble. “Sauron will approach the Guild first, looking for me and that which we created together. I . . . I can resist his methods of _persuasion_ for some time, and give Celeborn's men enough of a reprieve from Sauron's attention to hold out until Elrond can arrive.”  
  
All were silent in the wake of the Fëanorian's calm statement. For all of my dislike for the man, I felt something in my heart twist at his words. Such a fate . . . it was not something I would wish on even a most loathed enemy. A shiver went through me as I imagined both Sauron's wrath and him free to do what he wished to extract the information he sought. That shiver was then joined by an echo – a whisper of foreboding that my mother's foresight occasionally birthed in my blood. Yet, I pushed the wisp of foreboding away in frustration when it refused to take its full shape.  
  
Celebrimbor forced a wry look to his face. “It is _my_ fault that Sauron is able to march in such force. You sent word, warning us before Annatar even arrived,” he said to Gil-galad, “And you counseled me time and time again not to trust his fair façade,” he turned to Galadriel with his saying so. “I did not listen to either of you. Many will suffer for the weakness of my heart, and if I may save even _one_ life through cost of my own . . . it is not nearly enough for what I have done, but it is a start.”  
  
What could be said in reply to that? I wondered with a pang. Celebrimbor's sins were many, but his motives were pure – pure as his heart would continue to be, even when weighed down by the black might of that which he had created.  
  
“You will be remembered for this, Celebrimbor, rather than the craft of your hand.” Galadriel said softly. I could feel her spirit reach out to buoy his, heavy as both of their gazes were in that moment.  
  
Celebrimbor nodded tightly. “No . . .” he said honestly. “No, I shall not. But if _you_ will remember me for this, then I shall deem that to be more than enough.” He could not look at my mother, but all could feel the weight of his regard in that moment, even as hopeless as it was.  
  
A moment passed, long and fraught with tension. “And yet,” Gil-galad broke through the silence before it could turn uncomfortable, “Help may come from an unexpected source.”  
  
I looked up, curious for what he would say. “I intend to sail for Númenor,” Gil-galad informed us. “The Queen ages, and already many of Númenor's dealings lie in the hands of her nephew. Tar-Minastir may be King himself by the time war reaches us, and he may prove to be kind to our plight, even with the rippling of . . . unease, we have had with the Men of the West as of late.”  
  
With each passing generation, the people of Númenor grew further and further from the peace and wisdom their realm was founded in. Their knowledge and craftsmanship was greater than any other race of Men – so much so that they were equal to the Elves in many ways. The Númenoreans had only one permanent colony on Middle-earth, the shipyard at Lond Daer, where they carefully stayed just to the south of Gil-galad's lands in Eriador and harvested the trees there to nothingness. The native Men of Minhiriath and Enedwaith (descendants of Haleth, the same as the Númenoreans, though they were not recognized as kin for their rustic ways) greatly protested the invasion of their lands and the destruction of the trees that provided for their way of life. There, the Wood-elves of the land supported the Men in their constantly trying to drive the Dúnedain away. Already Númenor whispered of further settling the lands in the south and the east of Middle-earth, and soon . . . I sighed, knowing what a headache and a blessing Elros' descendants continued to be for the High-king. If . . . if Númenor helped us, there was even a risk that those native Men would turn to Sauron for aid in driving the Númenoreans from their lands, which presented another line of worry for us to consider.  
  
They said that Minastir had a tower built to look on the West and dream of immortality - for the coast of Valinor's Tol-Eressëa was visible from the mountains of Númenor. The Men were still friendly to their elvish kin, but there was envy and longing in their hearts to match that love. And, in time, such a thing could only . . .  
  
Yet, I pushed those thoughts away. For now, Númenor was our ally, and our friend. We needed every sword that could be pledged to our aid, no matter where that sword came from.  
  
Galadriel merely inclined her head to Gil-galad's words, saying neither yes or no as to his decision. With her visions, I wondered what she could see for the days to come, and what she remained silent to.  
  
Gil-galad inclined his head one last time, casting his eyes around as if he could see all whom my mother bound together. “We have faced worse than this and came out triumphant before,” he moved to rally the spirits of those who looked for him to lead. “At least we have not to fear from Dragon-fire or Balrog-whips, rather: Morgoth sleeps in the Void, and we shall push his Lieutenant to join him as we should have done so long ago. This Ring, though . . . this Ring gives me true pause. Yet, we shall rise up to this challenge as we have every other. The Shadow is not yet so great in Arda marred that it cannot be pushed back through casting our light once more. Take courage my friends, and I shall speak to you again soon.”  
  
He glanced to where he knew Galadriel would see, and nodded, understanding the strain that holding the connection caused her. As my mother dipped her hand into the basin, I allowed myself to peek at Gil-galad's herald one last time. While Gil-galad spoke, I had to force myself to look away and pay attention to the High-king's words, but now I stole a last glance as my mother moved to end the spell. A strange sort of awareness tingled as it whispered up and down my spine, as if in anticipating the build-up of a storm on a summer's day. For a moment Elrond glanced to the side, and I could have sworn that he looked _right at me_ before the image in the Mirror flickered and then disappeared completely. The silver water reflected only the height of the trees above, and nothing more.  
  
I took in a deep breath, blinking in order to free myself from the odd sort of haze that had taken me. A curious warmth remained deep within me, seemingly reaching up from my bones, and it took Haldir touching a hand to my shoulder to cause the sensation to dissipate and finally fade away completely. I started at his touch, feeling as if I should grasp for something which I had lost. I frowned, confused by the strange flickering in my spirit.  
  
“Are you well?” Haldir asked, concern in his gaze.  
  
I nodded in reply, unable as I was to first find my voice. “Of course,” I muttered when at last I could. I was saved from having to answer any more of his questions when I noticed how my mother slumped wearily against the basin with the spell's end. Her one hand was white knuckled about the silver rim, while she cradled her forehead with the other - a rare and uncharacteristic show of weakness on her part.  
  
Concerned, I passed Haldir in order to approach her, finding her place within my soul and opening our bond so that she could take of my strength to supplement her own. When I halted by her side, Galadriel reached over and touched my hand in reply, but the touch was weak.  
  
“Such a skill has not grown easier for me, even with my many centuries spent mastering it,” she remarked wryly. “Elrond attempted to help me maintain the connection, but he has always been a poor student when it comes to the Mirror.”  
  
Celebrimbor too stood very close to my mother's side. “If you wore the Ring,” he pointed out, “such a connection would be trifle for you to maintain for twice the time.”  
  
“My own power is great enough,” Galadriel said sharply in reply. With her using so much of her energy, a nearly fey aura clung to her from her fëa rising to compensate for the tax she placed upon her body. I watched where she fought to keep her face composed, near as she was to bearing her teeth at Celebrimbor for his words.  
  
“Indeed it is,” Celebrimbor said docilely, stepping back from the challenge he had unwittingly uttered. “And yet, it can be more . . . so much more. Was not such a power why you crossed to this land to begin with? _Artanis_ as she was would not have hesitated before grasping such a might and making it her own.”  
  
“Artanis I am no more,” Galadriel stated simply in reply, composing herself once more. “Now my motivations are different than once they were.” She looked at me, and I understood that which she did not say aloud.  
  
“Then, if not for your own power, don Nenya for the sake of the people you strive to protect,” Celebrimbor continued to push. His dull eyes took on a fierce, nearly fanatical gleam. “Please, think about that, if nothing else.”  
  
Galadriel set her mouth into a firm line, but she did not say anything more in response to his words. Her hands made fists at her side, as if she was trying not to reach up and touch the Ring she still wore around her neck. And yet, it was the _consideration_ shining in her eyes that gave me more true concern than anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Galadriel's Mirror** : We know next to nothing about how it works, or the parameters of its power, so this skill here is completely my own invention for practicality’s sake. Since this war is a lot of planning in several realms with thousands of men moving . . . well, letters can only do so much to accomplish that planning. As always, magic solves everything! Though not without a price, as we see. (And really, I just wanted some Elrond and Celebrían action a *bit* earlier than canon would otherwise allow me. ;))
> 
>  **Gil-galad** : I am going with his parentage in the published _Silmarillion_ , simply because that makes the succession so much cleaner than his alternate parentage. Though, if that rebels against your head-canon, feel free to overwrite the names in your mind; it can work both ways.
> 
> If you have any questions or comments about anything else, let me know! I always love a good chat. That said, I thank you all for reading, and hope that you continue to enjoy! :)


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